Gallow (18 page)

T
he child screamed for hours but the gate didn’t open. Eventually the cries fell silent. Gallow had no way of knowing if the girl had simply fallen asleep or if she was dead. The wind wasn’t that cold, though, so probably not dead, not yet.

He hoped.

Late in the afternoon Medrin brought the islander men he’d caught up to the end of the bridge. He slit their throats one by one and held them up by their hair until they stopped jittering and jiggling and the blood turned from a river to a trickle. After that he had Horsan chop off their heads with his big axe. Jyrdas took each one by the hair and had a go at hurling them over the monastery walls. The first two bounced off the cliffs and down into the sea. The third one made it over. The Lhosir gave a cheer. Medrin walked out onto the bridge. The islanders watched him.

‘I only want one thing!’ he shouted up at them. ‘That’s all. It’s not even yours. The Crimson Shield. I know it’s here. Give it to me and I’ll go.’ He pointed to the baby at the gates. She was crying again. ‘You can just take her back.’ Now his arm swept towards the cove and the village they’d passed. ‘And that. Your homes. Why should I burn your homes when I have what I want? Give me the shield and no one else need die.’ He smiled. ‘These monks who shelter you might not care about any of those things, but ask them: will they come out and build back your houses for you after we’re gone? Will they make the tools you’ve lost? Will they replace the animals you need to live? You had lives. Simple, peaceful lives. Why should these mad fools take those away from you for some old shield? Does it help you? Does it catch fish for you? Does it grow your crops? Does it feed you and keep your children safe? No. It’s brought us, and after us it will bring others. Give me the Crimson Shield and we’ll go. Or open the gates to us, if these monks will not. Let us fight it out between us. If we die, so be it. If we do not, we’ll take the shield and be gone. But all the time we’re out here, we have nothing better to do than make fires from your homes and feast upon your animals. What’s this shield to you? And as for you, soldiers of Luonatta – can you call yourselves soldiers? Are we so many? I’d heard you were fierce! Face us then, for we are not afraid of you!’

Silence met him. Medrin stood on the bridge, alone in the failing light and the quiet. The waves below hissed and splashed over the broken rocks at the foot of the cliffs. The tide was nearly out. Slabs of stone caked in barnacles and seaweed filled the space between the shore and the rauk. When no answer came, Medrin turned back. He surely couldn’t be surprised, Gallow thought. Not after what he’d done to their men.

‘The babe,’ he said. ‘When night falls they’ll come for the babe and then we’ll be inside. Keep your mail on and your eyes open.’

Which made for a lot of grumbling after Medrin went back to where Gorrin and Durlak were out on the cliff with their bows. Gallow dozed, and the moon was up high when Jyrdas nudged him. ‘Very quiet and still now, lad,’ he hissed. He nudged Tolvis too. Others were crouched on their haunches, staring at the monastery. ‘They’ve opened the gate a crack and now they’re waiting to see if we move. But we don’t. Not until Medrin says.’ He gave Gallow a hard look with his one eye. ‘What is it between the two of you?’

‘Our business, that’s what. Old business.’

‘Best forgotten then.’ Jyrdas’s good eye gleamed. ‘If any of you think you can creep up closer without anyone noticing then go right ahead. But if they see you and slam the door, I’ll throw you off the cliff and then come down to stamp on the bits.’

No one moved. Gallow watched the monastery gates. A crack of orange light from the fire inside split the door. As he waited, it slowly grew wider.

‘Should have crept someone out on the bridge to cling on under it,’ muttered Jyrdas.

‘Rather you than me,’ said Tolvis.

‘Not up to it?’

‘Do I have eight arms and legs? Or is there something else about me that makes you think I can hang upside down like a spider as the mood takes me?’

For a moment the crack went dark as someone stepped across the light. One of the islanders had come out onto the bridge. Jyrdas tensed. It had to be now.

‘Go!’ screamed a voice from off in the dark. The shape on the bridge bucked and stumbled, but didn’t fall. Gallow was up on his feet, running. Tolvis and Jyrdas and Ferron and a dozen others charged beside him. The orange light darkened again.

‘Take him now! While he’s in the door!’

Another arrow flew. This time the figure fell. Gorrin and Durlak had shot perfectly. Whoever had come out for the babe, they’d brought him down between the two gates and Ferron was already on the bridge.

Shouts went up from the wall. A javelin flew square into Ferron’s chest. He fell forward, skidded and tumbled off the edge of the bridge with a scream and a splash. ‘On the walls!’ Gallow lifted his shield, covering himself as best he could. Jyrdas reached the gates and shoved his sword through the gap; then suddenly the gates burst open and Jyrdas flew back. He stumbled and fell and rolled and caught himself just before he went over the edge, but the fall saved him. A volley of javelins fizzed through the air. One hit Gallow’s shield hard enough to spin him round. Clevis took another in the throat, hard enough to lift him off his feet and dump him off the bridge. Another Lhosir screamed and fell – Gallow didn’t see who. Through the gates the javelin throwers dropped to their knees and there were more right behind them.

‘Shields!’ Half the Lhosir must have roared it all at once. Gallow dropped to a crouch. He was halfway across the bridge, in the open and with nowhere to run. Most of the others had done the same and this time the javelins flew over his head.

‘On!’ Medrin again, but now the islanders had pulled their fallen man in and the gates slammed closed.

‘You’ve got axes!’ screamed Medrin. ‘Chop it down.’

Jyrdas was the first there again. He swung hard and the gates shuddered. Gallow saw movement on the walls above. ‘Jyrdas! The sky!’

One-Eye dived sideways and away from the gate just in time as buckets of hot pitch rained down. The air stank of it. Medrin waved his sword. ‘Smash it down! Smash it down!’ He had Gorrin and Durlak with him. Gorrin ran past Gallow. He had his bow and shot up at the wall. There was a scream.

‘Archer square!’ shouted Tolvis. He crouched down on one side of Gorrin with his shield covering both of them. Gallow crouched on the other side. Two more quickly took up position behind them. For the men on the walls, all there was to see were four round shields with a small hole in the middle; from that hole Gorrin would pick them off one by one. Gallow had used the tactic before once or twice, when he’d had no other option, and it worked well enough when the enemy on the walls had Marroc hunting bows. Less well when they had crossbows or something as heavy as a Vathan javelot. Forming it twenty feet away from the walls, though, that was madness and desperation.

Jyrdas and two others were back to hewing at the gate with their axes. Jyrdas swore as he slipped and fell on the hot pitch. Gorrin loosed again. Another scream, but then two islanders appeared at the top of the walls, easy enough to see this time because of the torches they carried.

‘Fire!’ roared Medrin. ‘Jyrdas! Fire!’

For the second time Jyrdas jumped out of the way. Both torches came down. For a moment they simply lay on the blackened stone, burning, and then something else came over the wall, a pot of hot fish-oil probably, and shattered between them, and the bridge in front of the gate erupted in flames. Jyrdas ran, another flailing silhouette beside him, flames rising off his back, straight at Gallow. There was nowhere for him to go – the bridge was already too narrow for the arrow square – but Jyrdas didn’t stop. Gallow braced himself as the huge Lhosir, bellowing and howling, jumped straight onto his shield, onto the next and over the top of them. The other Lhosir followed the same way, knocking Gallow sideways so he almost fell off the bridge. His shield waved wildly as he fought to catch himself.

A javelin flew straight into the middle of them. It hit Gorrin and the archer let out a roar and cursed loud enough to shake the walls down.

‘Back!’ shouted Gallow. Picking men off the walls was pointless with the gates wrapped in flames and so they ran and limped off the bridge, out of range of the javelins, past Jyrdas rolling around in the grass to put out the last of the fire on his back, and nursed their wounds. Four men lost. Gorrin’s mail had saved him from that last javelin but he had a broken arm which made him useless as an archer. Jyrdas’s injuries seemed to be no more than a stink of burned pitch.

‘Up up up!’ Medrin was shouting at them. ‘The fools have set fire to their own gates! Get down to the village! Down the path! Come on, you dogs, get on your feet. Anything that will burn. Bring it up and fire the gates!’

The Lhosir pulled themselves back to their feet and started down the path to the cove, full of angry mutterings as they ran. Gallow found himself kicking in doors, tearing down piles of thatch, anything that would burn, and then as soon as he had an armful, running back up to the top. They took it in turns to run out onto the bridge, shields up, dodging the stones and javelins as best they could to throw armfuls of straw and sticks. Later they stood at the far end, running up and throwing pieces of wood across the gap and then running back again. They kept the fire going for an hour before the islanders came up to the walls with buckets of seawater and tipped them over the flames. When the fire was out, the gate was still there. Jyrdas ran across and chopped at it but it was as solid as ever. With that, the Lhosir turned their backs in disgust and went to their furs and their blankets, too exhausted now to listen to Medrin’s pacing and cursing.

S
arvic watched from the darkness of the alley in Andhun as the two Lhosir rolled up Castle Hill. They were so drunk they could barely stand and they passed Sarvic’s hiding place without the first idea he was there. Sarvic kissed his knife.

‘Forkbeard bastards.’

He slipped out behind them, wrapped an arm around the first one’s face and ran the knife across his neck. Blood fountained over the street and over the second forkbeard too, and by the time he’d turned to see what was happening, Sarvic’s knife was buried in his belly. Sarvic yanked it free again. The Lhosir looked down and the knife came up into his face and straight into his open mouth. He gagged and staggered. Sarvic jerked the knife back and tried again.

‘Hoy!’

He’d been seen. He took one last slash at the stumbling drunkard, who was too deep in his cups to notice he was dead yet, and bolted down the hill.

‘Hey! Filthy Marroc! Murdering sheep!’ Another forkbeard was coming after him at full pelt, sober and armed this one, one of the demon-prince’s guards. Sarvic dropped the knife. Easier to run with empty hands. He looked up. Couldn’t help it, because this was where they hung the Marroc they murdered. Men – sometimes women – who’d said the wrong thing, or who were in the wrong place. The forkbeards ripped open their backs and snapped their ribs and pulled out their lungs and hung them on wheels from gibbets over the street, and for that the forkbeards deserved to die, all of them.

Ahead four more burst out of a tavern. The Grey Man. They were drunk and had two giggling Marroc women with them – giggling, but their eyes were fearful and with good reason. Chosen by a forkbeard. Give them what they want, because if you don’t they’ll take it anyway and hang you from a gibbet afterwards; but if you do, you might just get a knife from a Marroc like Sarvic for your pains.

Whores and bastards.
He raced towards them; the forkbeards looked up and saw the guard and heard his shouts and suddenly forgot about their women. They fanned out across the road and ran at him. Sarvic skidded sideways and dived into Leatherbottle Lane, narrow and lightless – maybe he could lose them here. With luck the Marroc women had had the sense to slip away, but the Grey Man? Tomorrow it could burn right down. The Marroc in there were no Marroc at all. Men who sold their own kind to these animals, and for gold the forkbeards had stolen from their own pockets in the first place.

He had five of them after him now, all shouting their lungs out and only a matter of time before another one showed up in front of him. Damn but they were fast. Even the one in mail was keeping up and showed no sign of tiring. For the first time since he’d turned and run, he started to wonder whether he’d really get away this time.

Marroc are good at running.
That’s what the forkbeards always said.
Good at running away. It’s all they do
. A surge of anger pushed him faster. But even if he didn’t pelt right into another one, there’d be a Marroc who’d sell him to them.

Ahead someone quickly got off the street at the sight of him, to skulk in an alley until the forkbeards were safely gone. That was how it was. What he really needed now were some Marroc with the spine to stand with him. Stand up to the bastards. He turned hard, crashed into a wall and dived into the same alley as the Marroc who’d skittered away. The alley was empty now, but he was only three paces into the darkness when an arm shot out of a doorway and grabbed him, pulling him into a tight space. A hand went over his mouth. ‘Stay very, very quiet. And still.’

Sarvic froze. The forkbeards poured into the alley a moment later and ran straight past where he stood invisible in the darkness. A moment later and they vanished out into Sailmaker’s Row at the far end.

‘Move! Right now! Before they come back.’ The arm around his face let go and pushed him out into the alley and back into Leatherbottle Lane, back the way he’d come.

‘Valaric?’

‘Yes, Valaric, you bloody idiot. Now shut your hole and move!’ They ran back up Leatherbottle Lane and down another alley until Valaric stopped at a door and banged on it, three times and then another two. When it opened, the air inside smelled of food and beer, and a hum of loud voices and laughter crept through the walls. Another Marroc hurried them into the gloom of a kitchen, face lost in the shadows, but Sarvic knew him from how he moved. Silent Jonnic from the Crackmarsh.