Gallow (20 page)

Gallow hid a smile. Medrin wore his on his face but there was no love in it, not one little bit. ‘Nicely done, One-Eye. Nicely done.’

Jyrdas laughed and ran off to get the men from the ships. If someone came in the night and set fire to them both, well then that was just the Maker-Devourer’s way of telling them that they weren’t meant to have the shield – that or that they were meant to fight their way to the nearest fishing village and steal themselves a new boat. Gallow and Tolvis went and sat at the top of the cliff, looking at the monastery, far enough from the bridge so they didn’t have to worry about the odd javelin. They watched while the islanders on the wall watched them back. Gallow’s eyes traced the routes around the cliff.

‘I was thinking,’ Tolvis said quietly, ‘that we could simply send half the men away on the ships while the rest of us hide nearby for a few days. They’d see our sails from up there. They’d think we were gone.’

‘Take them a few days to feel safe enough to come out.’

‘Are we in a hurry?’

‘The Vathen will march on Andhun sooner or later. You have to wonder what’s holding them up.’

‘The sword,’ said Tolvis. ‘That’s what the Screambreaker said. They were waiting for the sword. Their Sword of the Weeping God.’

‘
I
think they’re waiting for Medrin to come back with the shield. Maybe it’s fate for the two to meet again.’

Tolvis puckered up his face. ‘That some Marroc idea? In which case I think it might be fate that either you or Jyrdas are going to kill Medrin if we stay out here much longer. Which would be a pity, because then the rest of us would have to tear your lungs out and stick you on a pole for old Yurlak. Medrin and the Screambreaker I can understand – they can’t stand each other, and there’s the whole thing about what happened to Medrin when he came to join the Screambreaker’s fight against the Marroc all those years ago, and then which one of them will stand in Yurlak’s shoes when the Maker-Devourer finally takes him. But you two? What happened between you?’

Gallow shook his head. He stared out over the sea at the cliff beneath the monastery. A part of him was looking at the rocks, at the waves. They’d have to make their way around the base of the cliff with the sea crashing over them, right round to the other side. The waves would hide any noise. Good chance they’d smash them to bits as well. Stupid idea, except he really thought that perhaps it could be done.

Another part of him had got to thinking about fate. About Arda and Tathic and Feya and little Pursic, and even Jelira, whom he still loved even though she wasn’t his. Wondering what
their
fate would be. Wondering where they were, whether they were in Varyxhun, whether they were safe. Whether he should have stayed on the road from Andhun and left Tolvis lying there in the dirt. Whether he’d see them again and whether he was meant to. Hadn’t really thought about it back then. He’d still been too angry with Arda, too desperate to see a way out, too eager for anything to delay the words that would inevitably pass between them. Kyorgan had eaten that anger. Bad luck for him to be in the wrong place at the wrong time – or was that simply fate too?

‘We did something stupid together once, that’s all,’ he said. ‘A long time ago. Didn’t end well.’

Jyrdas was back as the sun set. He’d brought a great pile of wood with him and a bundle of sacks. ‘Still think we’ll fall off and drown in the sea,’ he said, ‘but if we’re going to do this, we’re going to do this properly.’

‘B
ut I like hearing about stupid things,’ hissed Tolvis. ‘Puts my own many foolish deeds into a more forgiving context.’

Jyrdas hit him. ‘Shut it, Loudmouth.’

They stood at the bottom of the cliff a little way from the bridge, where it was easy enough to scramble down from the top even in mail and with swords and axes hanging from their belts. They’d left their shields and Jyrdas was still muttering about that. Making them wear sacks over their mail seemed like it was his revenge.

‘When the Fateguard brought the shield back across the sea, they were going to take it to the Isle of Fates. Medrin wanted to see it before it went,’ said Gallow.

‘Yap, yap!’ snapped Jyrdas. ‘Everyone wanted a look at that damned shield. Now shall we all shout and wave at the islanders on the wall while we’re at it?’

The other Lhosir were making a noise up on the cliff beside the bridge, jeering and shouting. They’d made the wood Jyrdas had brought into a bonfire and then gone to get more. It was burning nicely. Give the men on the walls something to look at. Take their minds off anything else. A fire made it harder to see a man hiding off in the shadows. Jyrdas’s idea. The sacks were to stop the moonlight from glinting off their mail.

‘A man might think you’d done this sort of thing before, One-Eye.’ Tolvis grinned. ‘Care to tell?’

‘Nothing this stupid.’

They crept along the foot of the cliff. Low tide exposed a litter of rocks fallen from the cliffs long ago. The three of them picked their way slowly and carefully along the shore, hugging the shadows, down on their hands and knees where they had to. Spray from the breaking waves soaked them.

‘Don’t look at the light,’ growled Jyrdas. When they reached the pool of black beneath the bridge, he pointed to where the shadows were deepest. ‘That way. Keep in the darkness.’

A half-moon shone high up in the sky. A fresh wind chased heavy rags of black cloud across the stars. A good wind for blowing them back across the sea to Andhun. They paused, waiting for the next cloud to darken the sky. The men up on the cliff had taken to singing bawdy songs, the words changed a little to give some needle to the islanders. Gallow knew these songs, knew their words. Not long ago he’d almost have wept with joy to hear them. Now they only made him sad. Truth was, he didn’t belong any more, not here, not anywhere.

He touched the locket at his breast. Crazy stupid woman, pig-headed and bloody-minded. But his, and he missed her.

The moon slid behind ragged black shadow. Gallow crept out among the waves, clinging to the rocks. When the moon came out again, they stopped where they were, hugging barnacles and seaweed, heads down, sackcloth wrapped over their helms and the surf breaking over their heads. The sea tossed and churned, clawing and tearing, did everything it could to rip Gallow away and suck him under. The water came suddenly up over his head and into his nose and his mouth to make him choke and then fell away again. Wave after wave, but they all three held fast, and at last a new cloud covered the moon once more. Beside him, One-Eye growled.

‘Waves looked smaller from up top.’

‘It’s not deep, One-Eye. Calm day, even Loudmouth could walk straight across without getting his hair wet.’

‘And if we had the time to wait for one of those then I’m sure that thought would cheer me greatly. First wave hits you, it’s going to knock you flat and you’ll sink like a stone. Keep your lungs full and your legs underneath you, and when you feel something hard under your feet, kick and kick hard. Bit a bit of luck it might be Loudmouth.’ He bared his teeth and chuckled. ‘True enough, it’s not that deep and it’s not that far. You keep telling yourself that. I’d have roped us up, but I reckon chances are good that one of you is going to drown and I don’t want the dead weight tugging on me. Go on then, Gallow. Show us how it’s done.’

Gallow waited for the ebb and launched himself into the foaming water for the next boulder to break the surface. He took one step and his ankle turned. The next wave came, smashing him back against the stone he’d let go. He kicked again, pushing against it, took two steps before another wave bowled him over. The weight of his mail sucked him down at once and he couldn’t help but kick and thrash as the water covered him. Another wave sent him spinning. His feet touched stone; he pushed hard against it and broke the surface gasping. The ebb picked him up and threw him a yard further and then dashed him against the next slab of rock, thumping his head and shoulder against it, the barnacles shredding the sackcloth away from his helm. His fingers turned to claws, gripping at the stone, his feet scrabbling and slipping on seaweed then finally finding purchase, heaving him up until his head was out of the water and he could breathe again.

The next wave broke over him and almost knocked him loose. It smothered him. He felt his helm slip but he didn’t dare let go with either hand. As it fell, he snapped his head around and caught the noseguard between his teeth, cracking one and slashing his lip. Blood and the sea mixed their salts in his mouth. He pulled himself tighter to the boulder and hauled himself round the other side where the crash of the waves kept him pressed in place and he could put his helm back where it belonged.

He looked up. The moon was still hidden behind her shrouds. He knew where Tolvis and Jyrdas had been but they were lost now, swallowed by the darkness and the battering of the waves and perhaps by the sea herself.

Maker-Devourer preserve us!
Lhosir weren’t much for prayers because the Maker-Devourer wasn’t much for answering them. Another gulf that lay between him and the Marroc, what with Modris the Protector and all their other gods. They believed in guiding hands and greater purposes, but the Maker-Devourer offered none of that. Each man had his own fate and each man followed it to his doom, and that’s all there was.

The next wave was a big one. He didn’t see it coming until it broke over him hard enough to knock the air out of his lungs and shake him loose, and then the ebb came after and pulled him off and he was sinking, everything icy and black. He thrashed wildly but found no purchase. Tried to kick towards the next stone but the swirl of the water had turned him around and he had no idea where it was. Salt and icy cold crept into his nose, making him gag. He still had the taste of blood in his mouth, and then the next wave caught him and dashed his head against stone hard enough to make him see stars. He grabbed at it but the ebb pulled him away and sucked him under once more, bouncing him across the stones under the water. Try as he might, he couldn’t get his feet underneath him. He envied the Marroc for a moment, for their gods. At least if he’d believed in Modris and Diaran and the Weeping God then he could have had a last moment of hope. Wouldn’t have made any difference to him drowning, but he could have hoped.

His hand caught something. Too soft for a rock. It felt like . . .

Sacking. With mail underneath!

He clutched at it, swung his other hand towards it, all in the pitch-black heaving water, lungs burning now, and then another hand grasped his and was hauling him up, and at last he got his feet down to push against the bottom. He broke the surface and took a great gasp of air. Tolvis! He’d found Tolvis and they were right under the bridge, almost at the other side. They waited together for the next cloud and then launched themselves one after the other across the last foam-filled gap of water. It was easier with two. Tolvis went first and Gallow half threw him across; and then when he was on the other side, Gallow followed and Tolvis was waiting to pull him in. With a grinding effort they dragged themselves up the stones and out of the water and clung to the tumbled rocks at the foot of the rauk beneath the bridge, every limb as heavy as lead, slowly remembering how to breathe. Tolvis had somehow lost his sword. Gallow, when he thought to check, found he’d lost his helm again. At least they were under the bridge where the watchers on the wall couldn’t see them.

‘Right under the gate.’ In the light of the stars Tolvis’s eyes glittered. He patted Gallow’s head. ‘And you’re right. Calm day, I could have walked right across without even getting my hair wet.’

They waited another minute and Gallow was beginning to think it would be just the two of them when Jyrdas finally clawed his way out of the water. His helmet was twisted around so he could barely see with his one eye.

‘Maker-Devourer’s bollocks!’ he spat, sitting on the stone beside them. ‘I’ve come out the wrong end of battles easier than that. Wish I’d gone with Medrin’s plan now.’ He looked up at the cliff above them. ‘Ah crap!’

‘You can always go back,’ panted Tolvis.

‘Only if I can make a boat out of your bones, both of you. Mostly yours, Truesword.’
Truesword.
First time Jyrdas had called him that.

‘Can’t have been that bad with so much talk still in you,’ said Tolvis.

Jyrdas straightened his helm and bared his teeth at Gallow. ‘Go on then. Show us the way up. I’ll be as ready as it gets for splitting heads by the time we’re up there.’

Gallow made his way along the side of the cliff. He went slowly, each movement as smooth as it could be. Peppered with ledges and crevices, it wasn’t as hard as it had looked from across the water, even in mail and with a sword on his belt. Up by the bridge Medrin’s men were still singing their songs and shouting their taunts and insults while their fire burned brightly, and no one saw the three Lhosir as they traversed the cliff to the far end of the rauk and began to climb. Once they were above the water the stone was dry, even if it crumbled in places under Gallow’s fingers and clumps of grass came away in his hand.

The monastery wall rose straight up from the the cliff. It was an old wall, the stones large and ill-fitting, the mortar between them crumbling and badly eroded. Gallow pulled a dirk from his belt and held it between his teeth. Where the cracks were too narrow for his fingers, he took it and widened them; where he couldn’t do that, he forced the dirk itself deep into the crack until it would take his weight. His feet found what purchase they could. The wall wasn’t tall, and he thanked the Maker-Devourer for that.

There were no sentries on the back wall and he thanked the Maker-Devourer for that too. Once he was over he wrapped the end of his rope around his waist, braced himself and tugged. On the other end, Jyrdas tugged back. He came up fast, jumping over the top of the wall and landing with the grace of a man half his age, sword already out and gleaming in the moonlight. Tolvis followed, and there they were, the three of them in an empty darkness. The walls curved around to each side of them, following the shape of the rauk. From the outside they’d looked taller than they were. Two small towers rose from the walls, each with a sentry on top. The walls and the towers wrapped the space around the monastery itself, a stone longhouse with a steep leaded roof and that was all. Small and shabby. Gallow had expected something grander.