He reflected on this development as he watched Trask’s men settle themselves down for a siege. A tent city had gone up behind their lines, protected by a shallow ditch and a line of
blackened stakes. In front of that were the besiegers. The mantlets had been pulled back, revealing a deeper ditch behind which sat a line of catapults and trebuchets almost ready to unleash their
armoury against the city walls. It was an army set up with the expectation of staying for some time. Morgan checked the banners planted in a line before their camp. The blue-and-yellow banner was
there along with the banners of Haslan Falls, the green island on a blue background of Axmian, the green and white of Tetha Vinoyen, along with other banners of smaller baronetcies. The banners of
the mercenary companies were there, too, including that of the Vipers. And inevitably the yellow banner of Arshuma fluttered proudly next to the others. Morgan wondered how many of the men below
were actually from Tanaren. Half? A third? No more than that, he felt sure.
He looked along the battlement next to the gate tower on which he was standing. A line of armoured men looked curiously at the unfolding situation outside the city walls. He could hear grumbling
from some of the men, seemingly unaware of his presence. One voice was stronger than the others.
‘Look at them, ready to starve us out;. They look like they are settling down for a party out there; they can gorge themselves all winter, watching us get thinner and thinner. In a month
we will be eating rats or the moss off the walls. Why aren’t we attacking them, why are we just standing here, for Mytha’s sake?’
Morgan came over to the man, who blanched when he saw who was speaking to him.
‘There would have been little point before now. Any cavalry we would have sent out would have been decimated by their crossbows, and with their mantlets we would have been throwing arrows
away. Now they are almost set up, though, get yourself ready – the order to attack will be given soon. And as for eating rats,’ – he put his hand on the dissenter’s shoulder
– ‘there is no way those men out there want a prolonged siege. Trask has got over half his men here; his seat of power in Tetha Vinoyen is undermanned and in no state to defend itself
against the Grand Duke. All this out here’ – he gestured at the besiegers – ‘is for show. He will be looking to get over the walls, probably at night. That is when we need
to be alert; he needs a quick win or his men will desert. His priests already have; you may have seen them coming in earlier. Without the Gods, without the promise of booty, just watch his army
thin out. Half of them aren’t even our people. General Mirik, give the order for the trebuchets to start firing. Let’s shake these bastards out of their slumber.’
With that he made for his room in the gate tower, running a gauntlet of cheering men given fresh heart by his speech. He had had enough of wearing his ceremonial armour, now the fighting was
imminent he wanted to change back into his mail hauberk, one that had stood him in such good stead over many years. He would wear a cloak with the mace of Felmere instead so the men could recognise
him that way. A couple of his captains would be waiting in his room to discuss sentry rosters, but he would get rid of them sharpish; though it was he who had summoned them, there was nothing to
discuss that could not wait a few hours. Syalin was waiting at the tower door and accompanied him on his way up the steps. Before he got to his chamber, though, a man trotted down the steps towards
him; it was one of the commanders he had summoned. Morgan was puzzled. Why on earth did he want to speak to him now? What was it that he had to say that couldn’t be said before the others?
The man beckoned confidentially to him. ‘Baron,’ he said, ‘a word, if you please.’
Morgan approached him, a perplexed expression on his face, but before he could reply a couple of things happened. He saw steel glinting in the man’s hand and reflexively went to draw his
own knife. But before he got anywhere near to using his blade Syalin was on the man. Swiftly interposing herself between the two of them, she grabbed the hand that wielded the assassin’s
dagger and with her foot hooked the man’s leg from the floor, unbalancing him. He fell backwards, clattering down the steps to land back at the door that opened on to the battlements.
Before he could react she was on him again. She put her knee on his chest with her full weight behind it, and with her left hand she stabbed him through the wrist, causing him to scream and drop
his knife. With her right hand she held another blade to his throat. Morgan saw her face, all concentration and dispassionate cruelty, the same expression she had worn when she had tried to kill
him. By the Gods, she was fast, though; blackroot obviously worked, so it seemed. He realised in the time since he had cheated death how her face, with its chiselled lines and glacial indifference,
had softened; he had even seen her smile a couple of times. That was forgotten now as she looked at him. He would much rather have her as a friend, not a foe, he thought.
‘Shall I kill him?’ she asked. ‘Or do you want him questioned first?’
The door to his chambers opened, his captains looking bemusedly at the scene before them.
‘He tried to kill me,’ Morgan told them. ‘Obviously he has been taking Trask’s gold.’
‘And why shouldn’t I?’ the man replied, wincing with pain, his eyes watering. ‘You are no baron, just some mud-grubbing farmer who got lucky. You cannot rule these lands.
You have no right. Fenchard is at least of noble blood.’
‘Of cold noble blood,’ said Morgan with some disdain. ‘I think you will find he is dead and Trask, a farmer’s son who became a squire and then a knight, now rules in
Haslan Falls. No matter, I am done talking to you.’
Overhead came the sounds of grinding metal and snapping ropes, followed by a dull cheer from the battlements. It was the catapult mechanism; as he had ordered, they were starting to bombard the
enemy.
‘Syalin, take this man to Mirik. Tell him he is to be returned to Trask by the fastest possible route.’ Both he and Syalin raised their eyes upward, where the catapults were now
being fully engaged. She looked at him and understood.
‘As you wish.’ She gave her cruel smile and propelled the man back up the stairs and past him, making sure the spikes on her armour drew their fair share of blood.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Morgan, ushering them back into his room.
The meeting was short, just as he had wanted. After he had sent his men on their way he changed his armour. On a couple of occasions, though, he was interrupted by the impact of stone upon stone
and a rain of fine dust falling on his head from the ceiling above. Trask was evidently returning fire.
At length, he returned to the wall. The majority of Trask’s men were at the limit of the archers’ range, though a cunning crossbow bolt might find a mark. The conflict, as it stood
then, was between the opposing catapults of which Trask’s considerably outnumbered Felmere’s. The walls still stood, though, shaken but unbowed, a denuded battlement here or there the
only evidence of Trask’s success so far. In his camp, however, one catapult lay, smashed like matchwood in the freshly dug ditch. There were other marks in the earth, scored by great stones
landing heavily, and he could see men prone on the ground, being attended on by others.
Mirik and Syalin were watching developments together. Morgan went up to them. ‘Were my earlier orders carried out?’
‘Yes.’ Syalin laughed softly. ‘He bounced. A couple of times. It was funny.’
‘It was not meant for amusement,’ Morgan said grimly. ‘It was a message for Trask. The only type he understands. I hope it gave him something to think about.’
It certainly did. Trask stood over the crumpled body of the man, tied up into a ball so that he fitted the catapult, spine sticking, white and bloodied, out of his back and
spat dismissively on to the ground. One of his captains came up to him.
‘It was worth a try,’ Trask said. ‘But the blonde girl had too much for him. Still, it saves me some coin at any rate.’
The captain ignored his words. ‘Sir, we have had word from the infiltrator squad. They are in position, lying low in the countryside. They will strike when the Artoran bell chimes for the
first hour after midnight.’
‘This is what we will do with them. One team will test their walls at their lower points with ladders. They will not succeed at first but we keep trying to surprise them. After a few days
we double and treble the teams, picking different points on the wall every night. It only takes a handful of men to get through, to open a side gate, and we could be in in minutes. Morgan knows
this – he knows the catapults are useful but not decisive– so we have to keep him on his toes. The sappers will start digging tomorrow. I have told them to build a ram, too. We will try
that, if all else fails. We need to beware of his knights; they could come out at any time and the damned Wych folk are out there somewhere. Interesting, isn’t it?’
‘As you say, sir.’ The captain did not sound convinced. ‘Do you think we will be inside the town in the next couple of weeks?’
‘I can promise you this.’ Trask stared menacingly at the black walls, the gate and its towers. Taken together they almost looked like a face themselves, staring right back at him
with equal obstinacy. ‘If we are not inside in the next couple of weeks, then we never will be. Get this fellow burned, with the others – that is, if we still have a priest here able to
do the job.’ He left the man alone and walked up to the line of catapults facing the gate. The firing had stopped on both sides, they were all aware of the need to conserve ammunition.
Somewhere within those walls was Morgan Felmere, a man he had almost killed at Axmian when he had fought for Arshuman gold. He had been thwarted then, but at the time Morgan was just another
soldier, albeit one beginning to make a name for himself. Now he was a baron, a man of importance, and Trask would try and ensure that he would not be thwarted again.
Cygan wiped the cold sweat off his brow and tasted the salt on his lips. He looked at his forearm, bloodied after being raked by a Malaac claw and planted his feet firmly on
the treacherous sand. So far there had been two things to note about this battle; the good thing was that the waters surrounding the island were quite shallow. This meant the Malaac had to run at
them from a waist-high start, giving ample time to plant a flaming arrow or two into any onrushing creature’s chest. The bad thing, though, was that here the Malaac were far more relentless,
far more ferocious and far more numerous. Before now after one or two setbacks the Malaac would just melt away, move somewhere else. Here, however, they were not running. Thus far they had
inflicted significant casualties – the defensive circle had already shrunk considerably with dead and wounded men dotted around the island’s fringes. The Malaac would not stop here, not
until everyone was dead. And, after its initial appearance through the mists, there had been little further sign of the dragon.
It was still out there, and Terath’s plume of black fire still burned, but, beyond the ominous sounds and occasional glimpses of something vast moving just beyond the line of sight, it had
held back. Perhaps it could not make up its mind whether Terath’s flame signified another dragon or not, or maybe it was just waiting for the right time to strike.
Not that anyone in the battle cared overmuch right now; the Malaac were more than enough to deal with. As before, they attacked in concentrated waves, pushing the defenders to the limit before
withdrawing back to the shelter of the deep water. They seemed to know that just two or three more assaults would be enough to break the humans this time, to get revenge for the losses they
themselves had suffered.
Breathing heavily, Cygan left his place in the line for a second and went to speak to Terath who was standing right next to his magical flame seemingly unconcerned with their plight.
‘Why is Ventekuu not attacking? I thought this foul-smelling fire was supposed to draw her here?’
Terath smiled at Cygan. ‘She is nervous; a dragon is hardly an easy fight, even for another dragon. But she is circling, slowly drawing closer. When the Malaac withdraw you may see her
then. Your people with the slings need to stay alert; I have told them as much. I do not know why I sound so pleased saying this, but it will not be long now.’
He had barely finished speaking when the Malaac attacked again. Cygan ran back to his place in the line in time to run his spear through one of the beasts. The spear stuck fast; he could not
pull it free and so drew his knife in time to fend off another attacker, who ran at him, arms outstretched, trying to clutch his throat. Cygan went down, rolling in sand and water, stabbing and
stabbing his opponent whose claws scratched his face and neck. Cygan tasted his own blood dripping into his mouth before his enemy finally lay still.
Elsewhere, Whitey was, as he had suspected he would be, having a terrible time. He, too, was fighting the Malaac off with a spear and was having some success at it, when suddenly two other
Malaac sprang out of the water towards him. They grabbed him and slowly tried to pull him into the water where he could be drowned. Kicking and crying in fear, Whitey dropped his spear and with his
hands tried scrabbling in the sand, trying to find purchase, to stop himself being hauled to his doom. He had little success. His fingernails dug thick grooves into the coarse sand, exposing
thicker shells and ribbon-like worms, but he was fighting a losing battle, he feared. His head went under and the salt water filled his mouth and nose, causing him to cough and splutter. Still the
Malaac continued to drag him. He kicked out, feeling his boot impact on a face. One Malaac loosened his grip a little. He kicked again. The creature released him, causing him to fall into water two
or three feet in depth with a great splash. He continued to thrash around, trying to get the other one to let him go. It worked – he was free. He fell fully into the water, his head
submerging completely. Panic-stricken and disoriented, he righted himself instantly, standing and looking round to see where land was.