Cold Redemption (27 page)

Oribas turned back towards the tower. ‘Do you have any words for me to take back?’

‘None that any Marroc will heed.’

‘There is one thing, Skilljan Spearhoof. Consider, as I leave you, whose people it was who first built this tower.’

‘Oh, I know they were yours, Aulian. We all know that.’

‘Our people liked to dig, Skilljan Spearhoof.’

‘And what am I to take from that?’

‘That I am one of my kind.’

Skilljan laughed. ‘Are you offering to dig our cesspits, Aulian?’

‘You may scorn me but I value my life, Lhosir.’ Oribas left them in the road. The Lhosir waited for him to reach the walls and climb the Marroc ladder before they came on. They took
their time and assembled on the slope below the gates, out of range of the Marroc arrows. A hundred of them perhaps, and they had their ram with its sharply sloping hide-covered roof on top and a
dozen ladders. Around the back of the mountain three more groups of Lhosir picked their way through the tumbled stones. They didn’t go to much trouble to hide themselves, nor would it have
made any difference if they had.

With a howl the Lhosir raised their shields and ran at the wall, a tightly packed mass of them. The Marroc loosed a hail of arrows and a few of the Lhosir fell, but most of the arrows found only
shields and mail. The Lhosir reached the wall and hurled their ram at the gates while the ladders came up from among them and tipped against the walls. Now on the tower roof, Oribas tensed. The
first minutes mattered more than anything. The Lhosir were what they were and it would take a very bloody nose indeed for them to lose the will to fight, but the Marroc were flighty. They
weren’t soldiers seasoned in the blood and fire of battle, these men. If the Lhosir gained a foothold on any part of the wall then the Marroc would break and it would all be over. He closed
his eyes and said a prayer to the gods. He wasn’t sure which gods he should talk to on this side of the mountains, whether Marroc gods would even listen to an Aulian, but he prayed to them
anyway.
Let the ice behind the gates hold. Let the Marroc trust in it and turn away the ladders. Let them win!
He might have added,
Let them keep back the burning oil until it would
make the most difference and use their pots of boiling water instead
, but that seemed a strangely cruel prayer to any god, save perhaps the Weeping God of the Vathen.

Oribas couldn’t see the gates themselves, only the Marroc on the walls over the top of them hurling spears and shooting arrows at the Lhosir trying to work the ram. He saw one ladder crest
the wall only to be thrown back, and another and another, and then in one place further around a Marroc tumbled into the yard with a spear through him and then a second, and a moment later a Lhosir
helm and shield appeared over the battlements. But then Addic was there. He drove his sword at the Lhosir and kicked him back down, and the ladder was quickly gone.

On the other side of the mountain the three groups of Lhosir were approaching the wall. Oribas shouted down to the handful of Marroc keeping back from the fight around the gates. They ran up to
where he pointed and peppered the Lhosir with arrows. Among the rocks, the Lhosir were having a hard time holding their shields up as well as climbing and carrying ladders. The first group gave up
after two of them were stuck with arrows fifty paces short of the walls. The second group got a little closer. The third, Oribas saw, tried a good deal harder: they almost reached the wall before
they dropped their ladder, turned and fled, three arrow-pierced corpses littered among the boulders and the snow.

Around the gates the Lhosir pulled back, but then a rock the size of a man’s head flew over the wall and smashed into the yard. Oribas squinted down the trail at the trees beside the road
from where the stone had come. He couldn’t make out what the Lhosir had there until it jerked and fired again. A simple onager and not a particularly big one, not even quite out of range of
the Marroc archers, but that didn’t seem to bother the Lhosir. The second stone was low, thudding into the slope beneath the wall. The third and the fourth hit the wall, and then suddenly
three ladders came up at once at the same place, arrows showered the wall and half a dozen Marroc fell at once. Lhosir with bows! They almost never used them, but now they’d taken the Marroc
by surprise and Lhosir were cresting the wall with no one in their way. Two of them reached the battlements and turned to face the Marroc running along the walkway. Three more scrambled up the
ladders, lowered themselves to dangle off the walkway and jumped down into the yard. They ran for the gates to throw them open while arrows flashed past them, but then saw the ice and snow and
stopped, unsure what do to. The Marroc on the battlements pushed back the Lhosir and threw down their ladders. The three trapped inside were scythed down, a few Marroc running across the stained
snow to finish them off. Three more heads for Achista to mount on the Aulian Bridge.

The Lhosir withdrew not long after that. Oribas came down from the tower to tend to the wounded but there were few. Eight Marroc were dead and six injured, three with simple cuts that would mend
easily enough if they didn’t turn bad, one with an arrow though an arm that would probably mend, and two for whom the best Oribas could do was make them comfortable and hold their hands
together while they prayed. As well as the three Lhosir in the yard Achista said she counted thirty dead outside. Oribas, when he looked for himself, thought it more like twenty, but he kept quiet.
It didn’t matter. The Marroc had beaten the hated forkbeards again, and whether there were fifty or sixty or seventy of them left outside on the ridge, it made no difference.

She caught him at twilight and pulled him down to the Aulian tomb and they made love for an hour as the sun set. ‘Tonight,’ she told him as they lay together afterwards. ‘You
go tonight.’

Oribas said nothing. The Lhosir would grow stronger and stronger. It made sense, before going was no longer possible. ‘I wish you would come with me.’

‘You know I must be here.’ She kissed his ear and stroked his hair. ‘I’ll send the men who are too wounded to fight but who can still walk out through the passage.
They’ll hang our three forkbeard heads over the bridge and seek Valaric the Mournful in the Crackmarsh. Then the doorway must be sealed. If they’re caught, the forkbeards will find
it.’

He held her tight for a long time. They both knew it would be the last night they had. ‘I will not die first,’ he whispered in her ear as they rose and dressed.

‘I’ll hold you to that.’ They both knew it would be her.

‘The Lhosir will come in the night.’ Oribas was thinking of the three groups that had attacked the wall at the back of the tower earlier in the day, particularly of the band that had
pressed harder than the rest. ‘The south-west corner. They left a ladder there.’

Later they stood at the top of the shaft and watched the wounded Marroc climb down, three of them, each with a Lhosir head slung over his shoulder. They kissed and held one another and then
Achista stepped back through the round stone door and together, one either on side of it, they rolled it back into place until it lay between them.

‘Goodbye, Oribas. Fare well,’ he heard her call on the other side of the door, then heard her walk away. He turned the four seals, stood and looked at what he’d done and almost
opened them again. It felt as though this was
her
tomb, that he’d sealed her in to die.

She’d left a torch burning at the edge of the shaft to give him some light. He moved it carefully away and waited until the other Marroc had gone ahead and then threw a few things down
into the water. Easier that way than carrying them. By the time he reached the bottom, the faint flicker of orange light from the top was dim and fading. He worked quickly, doing what needed to be
done, and then waited for the fire to go out. In the darkness he left, picking and sliding his way through the caves to the mountainside. The other Marroc were already long gone. They’d each
choose their own path lest the Lhosir catch them and none of them would know that he’d followed. Achista’s last try at keeping him safe.

But he didn’t follow. Instead he turned the other way and trudged as quietly as he could around the edge of the mountain, towards the Lhosir camp.

S
killjan Spearhoof had a few hours of bad and uncomfortable sleep. He’d started the day with some hundred fighting men and now he was down to
more like seventy if you included the ones with wounds trivial enough to keep going. Bloody bastard Marroc with their bows. They were supposed to be farmers and beggars but half of them were in
stolen Lhosir mail with shields and helms and swords and they didn’t seem to have any shortage of those cursed arrows. Worse, the gates were stronger than he’d thought, which left
scaling the walls and he’d already seen how badly
that
was going to go. He’d sent a rider back towards Varyxhun to say he was going to need more men – a lot more men
– and that left him seething. Yes, there goes Skilljan Spearhoof who couldn’t deal with a few angry Marroc farmers even with a hundred hardened Lhosir warriors at his back. And if it
was true that the Marroc were led by a woman . . . He held his head and shuddered.

He led the night-time sortie himself, creeping up the mountain round the back of the tower in the dark to get to the ladder than Foddis Longbeard had left for him and lost three men doing it.
And it seemed as though the Marroc had crept into his thoughts and read his mind. They let him climb all the way up the blasted crags and set the ladder against the wall before a dozen of them
popped up over the top and threw a hail of arrows at them and he was lucky to get away with no worse than his tail between his legs and two more men sent to the Maker-Devourer’s cauldron. In
the middle of the night he finally he got to his tent and tried to sleep, and tossed and turned and set his plans as best he could. The Marroc hadn’t left him with much of a choice. In the
morning he’d build his pyres for the men he’d lost and lick his wounds, and then he’d wait and pen the Marroc inside Witches’ Reach until he had another two hundred men.
After that he’d go for the walls again. It would be a bloody business scaling them, but with that many men he’d do it and then the Marroc could see what it meant to defy him.

‘Oi! Spearhoof!’

Skilljan felt as though he’d only closed his eyes a minute ago. When he looked it was still dark, so maybe he had. He recognised the voice. Hardal Daggereyes. ‘This had better be
very important.’

‘Oh, you’ll like this.’ Hardal didn’t sound like
he
liked it. Skilljan sat up and rubbed his face and then wished he hadn’t. His skin still stung like the
lash of a whip from when he’d been working the ram and the Marroc had poured scalding water over them all. The hide roof had kept the worst of it off, but by then it had had its fair share of
rents and tears from all the arrows and spears the Marroc kept throwing at it. There weren’t many who’d worked the ram who’d come away unscathed.

‘Well, what then?’

‘Best you come out.’

His legs didn’t like it much, nor the rest of him either, but Skilljan hauled himself out of his nice warm tent. The furs he’d worn all day still kept him warm but on bare skin the
cold at this time of night was like being flayed. Hardal had two of the night sentries with him and three others. Two battered-looking Marroc down on their knees and whimpering and – Skilljan
blinked – the Aulian.

‘These two we found near the Varyxhun Road.’

‘Runners.’ Skilljan nodded. He’d expected a few, which was why Hardal had been out there in the first place. He’d hoped for more than two though.

Hardal shook his head. ‘No. Look what this one had on him.’ He held up a severed head. It took Skilljan a moment to realise he was looking at Geryk Frostbeard. Or what was left of
him.

Skilljan growled and drew his sword, then stilled himself. He bent down and grabbed the Marroc’s face instead, twisting it to look at him. ‘We’ll make a raven of this one in
the morning.’ That would make him feel better. It would make the others feel better too.

‘On his way to cross the bridge, he was. Taking messages to the outlaws in the Crackmarsh. So was the other one. Apparently there were three, so we missed one.’

Skilljan clenched his teeth. So be it. He’d have more men before any band of outlaws could come crawling out of the swamp and maybe that would be just the thing to lure them. He frowned.
‘I count three, not two, so how did you miss one?’

Hardal shoved the Aulian forward. ‘We found this one on the way back, creeping into the camp. He says he wants to bargain with you.’

‘I wasn’t creeping, Skilljan Spearhoof. I was walking as any man would in the dead of night across moonlit snow.’

The Aulian looked scared, though, despite the defiance in his words. After the day Skilljan had had, anyone within range of his spear had a right to look scared. He laughed. ‘There’s
no bargaining now, Aulian. We’re long past that. Your Marroc are all dead men.’

‘I wish to bargain for myself. For my own life. The Marroc inside Witches’ Reach may all be dead men but I’m not Marroc, Skilljan Spearhoof.’

Scared, but he wasn’t quivering and he stood still and spoke for himself, which in Skilljan’s eyes spoke of at least
some
courage. ‘I have to suppose that Cithjan sent
you to the Devil’s Caves for a reason, Aulian, even if I don’t know what it was. For myself, I have no grudge against you.’

‘I’ll tell you why your ram failed if you like. The Marroc have piled up all the snow from the Reach against the gates. They packed it down hard and poured water over it through the
night. The gates are frozen shut with a block of ice behind them as large as a shed.’

Skilljan looked at the Aulian and then turned back to his tent. Ice! Clever little
nioingrs.
So much for making a bigger ram. Maybe the Maker-Devourer knew how to smash a way through,
but Skilljan didn’t. ‘Make those Marroc as uncomfortable as you like, Hardal, but don’t let them die. I want their screams to reach the river when we gut them in the morning. The
Aulian can have a clean death. Feed him.’