Petrodor: A Trial of Blood and Steel, Book 2 (63 page)

Soon the mobs pulled back, no doubt informed by others that Palopy had fallen. Rhillian and Kiel waited until dark, then crept down to the ground. From there it was a simple matter to surprise two guards on a side gate, slit their throats and escape onto the road beyond. Soon enough they were creeping along a familiarly dark, winding route, boots splashing in puddles.

Eventually, they emerged onto an open shoulder between leaning walls. Kiel stopped to rest his wounded leg and tighten the improvised bandage. There was a view of Dockside below. Despite the gloom of the overcast night, there was light enough on the docks. Fires burned along their length, reflecting off the water and turning even the clouds above to a dull, orange glow, like coals in a dying fire. From far below, above the gentle patter of rain, there came the raucous sounds of battle.

S
ASHA HAD NOT YET SWUNG HER BLADE IN ANGER
, and already she was exhausted. She surveyed one alley's barricade, the scene alight with burning torches and the more distant flicker of a burning building. Men rested in the respite between assaults, drinking water brought to them by women carrying buckets. Younger lads scurried forward to replace pieces of the barricade that had fallen in the fighting. Bodies of the enemy were pulled away from the barricade, so they did not make a set of steps for the next attack to climb. Several defenders were discovered to be wounded, and were eventually persuaded, with much shouting and handwaving, to fall back for treatment. Then another man would be hustled forward from the waiting cluster further down the alley, to take his place in the line.

Sasha pushed forward through the throng, yelling, “Who's in charge?” Eventually a man revealed himself—a great, pot-bellied ball of a man, wielding a big, blood-spattered axe. “Losses?” she asked him, without preamble. She was not bothering to identify herself, and most people seemed in little doubt.

“Four,” the man announced, leaning a thick arm on his axe. “That last attack, they had long weapons to the fore, they seemed more organised…here, Feri says he saw a militia man…”

“Had to be!” the man named Feri declared, a big broadsword in hand, still wide-eyed and breathless from the shock of that last engagement. “He moved so well, he flicked out his damn spear like an expert, like he was fishing or something! He got Haleni right in the throat!”

“Aye, I know,” said Sasha. “The front ranks are loaded with militia, they're not all crazed lunatics. It's the same right across the line. What about armour, are you seeing any more armour?”

There were head shakes all about. Tired men; dishevelled with rain, sweat and blood.

“Just the usual,” said the big axe man. “How does the line hold?”

“Excellently,” Sasha announced, loudly enough for them all to hear. “We've had not a single breach so far. They aren't—”

“Ware!” came a shout from above, and people ducked as an arrow clattered off a nearby wall. Some attackers had taken possession of empty houses above the foot of the slope and were firing from long range toward the torchlight. Mostly, it was a nuisance.

“They aren't able to deploy their artillery,” Sasha continued, “that which they've managed to bring down the slope. Kessligh thinks we may see a more concerted attack on one part of the line—if that happens, we may need to redeploy some men. Those of you who are good runners, get ready to move if the order comes.”

“We're winning?” another man said hopefully. It was the question of a shopkeeper who found himself in a battle for the first time in his life and wondering if he might actually survive. Winning? The night, Sasha knew, was very young yet. Yet she allowed herself a small, wry smile.

“Aye,” she told them. “We're winning.”

That got a cheer. Sasha turned and pushed away through the crowd as men returned their attention to the barricade. Once clear, Sasha rejoined Kristan and ran up the adjoining alley, headed north along the stretch of docks that Kessligh had assigned to her—from Maerler's Way all the way down to South End, she had effective command.

Kristan stuck close to her shoulder, not yet breathing as hard as she. He was a Nasi-Keth lad of nineteen, slim with a mop of curly black hair and freckles. The uma to one of Kessligh's strongest supporters, he was a good fighter and an excellent runner, and had been tasked to make certain Sasha was not ambushed by some sneak behind the lines.

The connecting alleys were barely lit, and occupied mostly by women or older children hurrying with bandages, food or water. Several alleys on, she came to Fisherman's Lane, its familiar length now a commotion of battle preparations like the others. Sasha pushed her way forward, and found the mood behind this barricade nearly raucous, men talking loudly and with great enthusiasm, some even laughing at a battle-crazed joke.

Immediately behind the barricade, she discovered why. The highlanders had taken over. Tongren stood atop a portion of the barricade, in all contempt for long-distance archers, and was yelling animatedly at the others, instructing them on formations, and what had just happened in the last attack and should not happen again. He made shapes with his hands, pointing with his sword and describing men's movements. His manner reminded Sasha of the captain of a lagand team, discussing a change in tactics during a break in play. His blade was bloody and his arms were bare, black tattoos spiralled down his biceps to trail delicate patterns about his thick forearms. Sasha had not seen those tattoos before. They were the markings
of a great warrior, for certain. In Lenayin, Goeren-yai men had them added as they fought in more battles, and won more victories. Cherrovan, she knew, was not so different.

She recognised Ydryld the ironmonger, another big, wide-muscled man. Ydryld was Lenay, but Verenthane, and indistinguishable from the local Torovans…save for his size. Very few Torovan men had such size about them, particularly in the shoulders. Only now did it truly strike her. She herself was a little below average size for a Lenay woman—but in Petrodor she was above. Tongren, no doubt, was a moderately tall man in Cherrovan, but here he was huge.

“You did well,” Sasha surmised to Ydryld. Ydryld smiled a gap-toothed smile and pointed proudly to the lane before the barricade. The bodies piled there were twice the number of any other lane. Ydryld's huge sword looked familiar to Sasha's homesick eyes—it had Lenay workmanship, nothing fancy and a little battered, but big, well-balanced and deadly sharp. She could well see the horror of it, here amongst the clubs and spears and half-sized thrusting swords of Petrodor.

“Sasha! Sasha!” It was Elys, Tongren's eldest, shaking her arm. Sasha almost didn't recognise him, his long black hair tied into a warrior's braid, a highland sword in his hand. He pointed at Tongren atop the barricade. “That's my father!” he proclaimed. There were tears in his eyes, and he seemed ready to burst with pride. “My father's a warrior! I'm going to have tattoos like him too, one day. You watch.”

“Were you pressed hard?” Sasha asked Ydryld.

“That pack of chickenshit fools couldn't threaten us in their dreams,” Ydryld retorted. “Look at us! Only two men hurt, those barely scratches, and look at this pile of dead filth at our feet! We're invincible!”

The men about him gave a roar and weapons were thrust into the air.

“Hey!” yelled Tongren over the top of them. “Pay attention, damn you! They'll come harder next time, this was just a probe! Listen to me and we'll kill even more of them! Sasha!” As he spotted her amongst the taller men. “How holds the line?”

“Well!” Sasha replied and pushed through to him.

Tongren jumped down from the cart he'd been standing on. “What does Kessligh think?”

“You mean you haven't had a runner?” She stopped before him, looking up.

“Aye, he came, looked, and said carry on.” Tongren grinned. “Kessligh knows this alley at least is safe!”

“And that's a problem,” said Sasha. “We're too strong here. You were right, that was a probe in strength, whoever's commanding this doesn't mind losing
a few hundred Riversiders if it shows him where our strengths and weaknesses are. Fisherman's Lane has shown itself our strength, so he probably won't come this way again, not seriously.”

“Aye,” Tongren nodded. “Where do you think?”

“Oh hells…there's really no telling. Kessligh might have a better idea than me, the line is fairly much the same all the way along. And however much command is had over there, I'd bet it's not
that
good. Commanding that mob would be like herding squirrels.”

“Aye, he'll just pick three or four weakest spots, and concentrate on those,” Tongren agreed. “If they get through in several places at the same time, we're in trouble.”

“We can't let that happen,” Sasha said firmly.

Tongren nodded. “So what d'you want some of my men? They won't like it, Sasha—this is the first damn time in centuries Cherrovan and Lenay have fought together for something!”

“No,” said Sasha, gazing over the top of the barricade. Even now, youngsters were throwing dislodged pieces back on top, making it higher. In the flickering torchlight, she could see a catapult at the foot of the slope, its wooden frame studded with arrows. She glanced up, and saw the dark shape of a bowman crouched on a roof above the lane. Most of the Nasi-Keth were archers tonight, not swordsmen, by Kessligh's command. Fighting down in the alleys was at close quarters and cramped; a wheelwright with a hammer could be as useful as a svaalverd fighter in such conditions. A Nasi-Keth could kill as many attackers as he had arrows in his quiver.

Tongren followed her gaze and grinned. “They can't fire the damn catapult on the slope!” he said gleefully. “One shot, and the weight of the swinging arm knocks it over! That or the shot goes way short, and that's oil-shot they're using, could end up anywhere. So they wheeled this one down onto the flat, only they're right within archer range and your boys on the roof cut them all down before they could fire.”

“There's people moving over there,” Sasha observed, seeing shadows flitting about the catapult.

“Our archers are holding fire,” Tongren explained. “Gaeryld and his son are over there scouting.”

“Out there?” Sasha stared into the flickering gloom of the lower slope. Amidst the cluttered houses, torchfires burned, but the chanting and yelling was not so strong here as elsewhere. Still, there were many thousands of armed, bloodthirsty men arrayed just above the flat of Dockside. Spirits knew what they were organising, or what help they were getting from supposedly neutral sources.

“Gaeryld's from Valhanan Lenayin—your part of the world,” Tongren explained. “He's not been here more than three years, he was a woodsman there. He had some trouble with another man's wife, I gather, and that family's sworn to get his head, so he came here instead. His son's a little rat-bastard cut-purse, half of Dockside would wring his neck if they could catch him, so it seems only fair we're putting his talents to use.”

Sasha gazed up at the big Cherrovan, wonderingly, and could not help but ask, “And what about you, Tongren? Those are interesting tattoos.”

“Ah, you like them?” He examined his arms, smiling. “I was a chieftain's son.”

Sasha blinked at him. “You're joking.”

Tongren laughed. “Village chieftain, not provincial. A little place called Raeshald, in Alsfaynen Cherrovan, in the high country just to the west of—”

“I know where it is. That's just north of Hadryn.”

“Aye, we share the same enemies, you and I! And a right mess you made of those bloody Hadryn, too.”

Sasha withheld comment, still staring. Most Cherrovan had little compunction killing any Lenays—Hadryn or otherwise. But she did not want to divert Tongren's tongue. “What happened?”

“My father wanted me to marry the wrong girl. I wanted to marry the right girl. We ran away together, to the only place my relatives couldn't come and kill me.”

Sasha's mouth dropped open. “You mean…your wife…?”

Tongren grinned. “Aye, the dragon lady herself. Don't let her fool you, Sasha, she's the sweetest woman ever born to the breast of the spirits.”

“And Elys doesn't know?”

“No hiding it now. I'd thought it best not to talk, lest word escape back to my family. But my father died just recently, my eldest brother rules Raeshald now. He sent word, he'd like to see me. He talks of a pardon.” He sighed, his eyes wistful. “I would like to see my homeland once more. I've lived here for sixteen years now, since Elys was a babe. But at night, Sasha, I can still hear the mountains calling, deep in my soul.”

“Do you fear a trap?”

“I'm only a little stupid, girl, not entirely. Of course I fear a bloody trap! But my brother has enemies, and it's the Cherrovan tradition for brothers to share power. My brother needs me.” An arrow whistled somewhere abouts, then a more distant clatter on a rooftop. “But come, this pause won't last forever. How many of my men do you need?”

Sasha took a deep breath. “I think I'll leave you together,” she said. “But I'll pull the Torovans here off the line, and send them to reinforce the neighbouring lanes. This will be a highlands affair.”

Tongren grinned, a dangerous light in his eye. “I'll give the order. I like it so far.”