Lescari Revolution 03: Banners In The Wind (24 page)

A few raids launched into Caladhria, with their plump women and ruddy-cheeked children thrown into chains for a life of debauchery, and the barons would soon raise an army to back Iruvain, without any need to rely on this so-called Duke Rousharn of Sharlac. Who was of course married to one of those very rebels from Vanam. Karn would soon find a way to convince Iruvain the man wasn't to be trusted.

Marlier would suffer too. Karn owed Ridianne the Vixen an ill turn. He had so very nearly died when that bitch Charoleia had sent men to kill him, inside Ridianne's own camp. She'd made no amends, never even shown any remorse. So now she could pay the price for that and Duke Ferdain of Marlier with her. Karn never forgot or forgave an insult.

He spared a moment to wonder what had become of Charoleia. At least one of her maidservants was dead at Minelas's hands, so that was something on his side of the ledger. But he still owed that other dumpy little slut a brief lifetime of pain before she died.

If the little Vanamese hadn't foiled him, when he'd tracked the scent of Derenna's deceits and so very nearly caught them, even with his festering wound barely healed, he might still have been in time to warn Sharlac, to warn Master Hamare.

But Hamare had been killed while Karn lay insensible, wracked with the fever that had come so close to killing him and left him with scars to horrify any future bed mates, even when his good looks were restored.

Hamare had been murdered on Charoleia's orders, by those blond bastards of Mountain Men who'd stolen her away from Adel Castle, thanks to their cursed wizardry.

He was certain the Mountain Man wasn't the only one with magic at his fingertips in their enemies' camp. Karn sometimes wondered what the Archmage's vengeance might be, if he ever discovered all the secrets of the rebels' magecraft, and called Planir the Black's wrath down upon them.

He would have to find a way to achieve that without putting Litasse in jeopardy. Though with Minelas dead, Karn would defy anyone to prove that he had recruited the renegade mage. After all, he had made sure there was no one left alive to link them, even before the wastrel had first set foot in Triolle.

He let slip a sigh of exasperation. As futile as Litasse's remorse might be, he knew it was heartfelt, all the more so once she learned of Minelas's inconvenient appetites.

Didn't she realise what control that should have given them over the duplicitous wizard? But no, and Karn knew that Litasse's guilt would compel her to abject confession if she was ever challenged again by that magewoman who'd so inconveniently appeared in Adel Castle. So he had to save her from that particular folly. Not least to save his own neck from whatever penalty the Archmage might impose.

Besides, he would rather wreak his own revenge on those Mountain Men. Karn strode swiftly through the silent Relshazri night towards the tavern district. If those exiles thought they had the upper hand, he relished the prospect of showing them their mistake.

His only concern was that those particular rebels who owed him their deaths for Master Hamare's sake might inconveniently get themselves killed in whatever skirmishes were going on around Wyril, before he could cut their hearts out himself.

Chapter Sixteen

Tathrin

Wyril,

in the Dukedom of Draximal,

44th of For-Winter

Tyrle grew rich on linen and Wyril grew rich on wool. Tathrin recalled his father once telling him that. He shivered. One of the town's famous striped blankets would be welcome about now. The night was bone-numbingly cold.

'Stay down,' Gren warned, a few paces ahead.

Tathrin was already stooped as low as possible, scurrying through the meagre shadow cast by the wall running along the lane. The pack beneath his cloak dragged awkwardly at his shoulders.

Both moons were slightly smaller than full; the Greater waxing, the Lesser waning. It was the best night for a battle that For-Winter would offer. Which made it the worst for approaching the town unseen. Well, every rune landed with one upright face and one reversed. He could only hope the persistent snow flurries would hide them from any sharp-eyed sentry on the wall.

Frustration burned Tathrin's throat with a mockery of warmth. Whatever its uses tonight, this snow had cost them at least a day on the road coming north through Parnilesse. There were so few horses travelling from town to town or from farm to market, and still fewer wagons, that long stretches of the highways had become impassable. Some drifts had been so thick they'd had to swap their swords for spades and dig.

The weather hadn't been their only foe. Few wandering bandits dared challenge his company recruited from the Carifate but they had twice encountered more determined opposition, from mercenaries cast adrift from shattered companies who'd made common cause with militiamen abandoning their allegiance to Parnilesse, Triolle or whoever.

Gren's breezy assertion that fights helped everyone keep their hand in was scant consolation. Granted, as Sorgrad had pointed out, those freebooters weren't doing Reniack's bidding; swift interrogations had established that. Tathrin still ground his teeth, recalling the casualties they could so ill afford.

He had hoped to see more men and women at that rendezvous by the Carif rampart, convinced to stake a claim on Lescar's future. Sorgrad had reckoned they'd done as well as he'd expected but Tathrin still fretted. Did they really have enough seasoned warriors to strengthen their eager but green contingents freshly enlisted from Lescar's towns, thanks to the efforts of Master Ernout and his allies among the guildmasters and craftsmen? Reher the Carluse smith had proved a particularly effective recruiter.

'Hold up.' Behind them, Sorgrad called out softly. 'Wait for the stragglers.'

He didn't sound in the least cold, Tathrin heard, aggrieved. Gren wasn't bothered by the weather either, doubtless thanks to their Mountain blood.

Hunkering down in the wall's shadow, Tathrin shifted his feet to make sure he could still feel his chilled toes wriggling inside his thick socks. The last thing he needed was Maewelin's nip from the frost. Every morning saw another handful of his meagre force limping along, betrayed by inadequate boots.

Never mind the weather. How would those untested lads from Losand and Sharlac, Carluse, Ashgil and Dromin, from Triolle and Adel, meet the challenges of battle? He'd had very mixed news from the different town militias who had joined up with them over these past two days. Every sergeant-at-arms reported being harried by haphazard gangs on their journey. Some contingents had acquitted themselves well. A couple had been cut to pieces.

That was another challenge to add to his list. Tathrin sighed. Once he had seen Wyril retaken from the renegades, and somehow dealt with Reniack and brought Parnilesse back into Lescar's fold, he must put an end to all this brigandage.

But first things first. Swirling snow stung his eyes as he peered at the dark bulk of Wyril's walls. The town was well defended. It was Draximal's second largest and Duke Secaris's most westerly stronghold, where his territory drove a blunt wedge between Carluse and Triolle. High walls overlooked strong gates commanding the roads running north-east to Draximal Town, south-east to Deflin and the Parnilesse border, more southerly still to Triolle and south-west away towards Tyrle.

This was the road they had used for their approach, after cutting across to find their assembled militias lurking where Carluse and Triolle's lands butted up against Draximal's border. Kerith had done his job well.

In happier times, Tathrin reflected, all those towns and every village in between had been glad to buy Wyril woollens. Would there be anyone left to return to card and spin the wool and weave the cloth after all the tribulations this region had suffered?

'Can you see any lights?' he asked tensely.

'Not this side of town,' Gren replied, satisfied.

Tathrin allowed himself some cautious hope.

Sorgrad appeared at his shoulder. 'Let's move.'

Tathrin glanced back to see their small force was all assembled. At his nod, Gren led them onwards.

Some distance back, they had slipped away from the highway that ran from Tyrle to Draximal. The road followed this shallow ridge running from south-east to north-west. The town itself claimed the gentle slope running down to a shallow, gravelly river whose waters washed wool and drove Wyril's fulling mills, before running away to the Vale of Ashgil and the other streams that flowed on into the River Dyal.

Snow crunched beneath Tathrin's boots as he moved quickly along this slope. These broad meadows were the tenter-grounds, where vast lengths of freshly napped blanketing were hooked onto frames to dry. Though there was no cloth hanging stiff in this frost and the long wooden racks had been stolen away for firewood.

They drew closer to the town. There was still no shout from the battlements, no sentry seeing them plain as spilled ink on a page as they hurried across the moonlit snowfield. Bent almost double, Tathrin dashed across the last stretch of open ground. Reaching the black shadow cast by the walls, he breathed just a little easier.

But now he looked in vain for the lesser gateways that pierced the walls. The weavers tending their cloth hung to dry in these meadows had long been accustomed to use their own entries. Tathrin had been surprised, but Ekarre and other mercenaries who had travelled this road had explained such passages were securely locked and barred in time of peril. Besides, none were wide enough to admit more than one person at a time, so they hardly invited an all-out assault.

Sorgrad still reckoned that's how these renegades had got in. After the disaster of the battle for Tyrle, with Lord Cassat dead and any loyal Draximal militia scattered, there would have been no one watching these walls, ready to send armed men to defend any threatened doorway.

If he was right, would renegade mercenaries be lying in wait for anyone else seeking to exploit that same weakness?

Tathrin looked back over his shoulder. 'When did we last see scouts from the town?'

'Dawn yesterday.' Sorgrad shrugged. 'Verista's Pine Martens cut their throats.'

Tathrin could only hope Ekarre's lieutenant hadn't let some witness flee to report those murders. Though that would be unlike her. He had rarely come across a mercenary so single-minded, once she had decided to throw in her lot with them.

'Which way?' He pressed his back against the masonry, glad to stand upright. The double-handful of men with them were all now lined up against the wall.

Gren stripped off his gloves to run bare fingers across the stonework. 'This way.' He ran lightly down the slope.

Tathrin followed and slipped on treacherous ice. Only Sorgrad's bruising grip saved him from a nasty fall.

'More haste, less speed, long lad.'

'How far to the entry?' Tathrin asked curtly.

Sorgrad's unerring fingertips read the signs he'd chipped into these stones before they had withdrawn with the dusk to find Tathrin's rough-hewn army.

'It's the next one along.'

Sorgrad and Gren had crept alone through the snowy dawn shrouded in grubby linen, to lie hidden in a ditch all day. Scorning the deadly lethargy that cold so easily be forced on less hardy men, they had determined which of these unregarded gates showed no sign of use.

'In here.' Ahead, Gren had already ducked into an archway, a glimpse of darker shadow in the blackness of the wall.

Tathrin heard a faint rattle akin to keys. Gren soon pulled the heavy oak outwards. He had sworn nothing short of the costliest work from a Mountain locksmith could foil his finely honed skills, numb fingers or not.

'Mind your head, long lad.' His grin caught the faintest glimmer of light from within.

Tathrin ducked as he entered the passageway running right through the thickness of the town wall. Firelight flickered along the glistening stones. He could see the glow through an iron gate barring the far end so town watchmen could see if the outer door had been compromised. No one was keeping watch tonight. Still, Tathrin could hear none-too-distant shouts and his heart quickened.

'Keep moving.' Sorgrad pushed at the pack on his back.

Tathrin hurried on and heard the oak door close behind them. All their small force was now in the tunnel. Despite the cold, sweat beaded his face. If anyone saw them, they were caught like rats in a trap.

He heard a grunt of discomfort behind and recognised a stifled oath as Reher's. Master Ernout had set the Carluse blacksmith the challenge of recruiting and captaining the town's militia. Tathrin didn't imagine he faced many arguments. He smiled unseen. Reher was even taller than he was and far wider in the shoulders. He must barely fit through this narrow entry.

Gren was already working on the lock securing the iron lattice. Once again, his larcenous skills triumphed. Like the outer door, this opened towards them, all the better to foil invaders by handing the advantage to the town's defenders. But there was still no one looking out for Wyril's interests tonight.

Gren emerged into a street dappled with fire-lit shadows running along the entire inner face of the wall, uninterrupted by buildings. 'Try to look like you belong here.'

Tathrin hurried after him to find the flurries of snow were subsiding to leave the night crisp and cold.