Lescari Revolution 03: Banners In The Wind (25 page)

Sorgrad was hissing final orders to the men behind him. 'Don't follow the walls too closely. Spread out and lose yourselves in the alleys.'

The men swiftly obeyed, hunchbacked with the packs beneath their cloaks. Like Sorgrad and Gren they had all been hand-picked for having at least some knowledge of Wyril's layout, whether their visits had been as honest tradesmen or as mercenaries taking Draximal's coin for some troubled season or other.

Within a few moments, Tathrin and the two Mountain Men lurked alone in a stinking ginnel. No lights showed at any window of the terraced houses on either side. The only illumination was a burning heap of refuse outside a weaving shed.

Gren chuckled. 'That should help things along.'

'How soon?' Tathrin looked at Sorgrad.

The Mountain Man threw back his hood, listening intently.

Those earlier shouts had faded away. All Tathrin could hear was the thudding of his anxious heart. After what felt like half an age, the seventh chime of the night rang raggedly through the moonlight.

'Not long.' Sorgrad's smile was as cold as the uncaring stars. 'Come on.'

Tathrin followed him through the back-alleys. Every house was dark. Here and there doors stood open or smashed. Shutters hung askew. Surely there couldn't be any innocent townsfolk left in Wyril? He desperately hoped not, given what was to come.

They turned a corner and found themselves facing an irregular square of unexpectedly grand houses. They looked more thoroughly ransacked than any buildings Tathrin had seen yet.

'Don't say a word.' Sorgrad quickly pulled his hood back up.

Gren's hand had already gone for his sword hilt beneath his enveloping cloak.

Around an ill-tended sprawl of embers, men were lighting crude torches, sharing them out. An avid circle of mercenary men and women ebbed and shifted. Dogs snarled, brindled beasts and piebald. Some were fighting their leashes, others recoiled from growled threats. Drool glinted in the firelight.

A gang of burly men wrestled with a young bullock. One tied the end of the rope around its neck to a chain looped around a fountain basin in the middle of the square. As the other men flung themselves clear, the bullock was left plunging and struggling against the tether. Despite the cold, foaming sweat smeared its flanks.

Someone yelled and the dogs were let loose. Confused, several attacked each other. Shouting men hauled them apart, throwing the hounds bodily at the bullock. Others thrust their torches into the faces of dogs trying to flee.

Straining so hard that the rope cut into its neck, the bullock thrust a horn through a piebald hound's flank. The wretched creature yelped as the bullock tossed it to its death. Two others seized their chance to go for its throat. More were nipping at its heels. Every time a bite drew blood, the crowd roared drunken approval.

Swallowing his revulsion, Tathrin followed Sorgrad and Gren to another dark alley offering sanctuary. As they reached it, a man stumbled out of the shadows. Oblivious to the cold in shirt and breeches, he saluted them with his bottle of white brandy.

'Fair festival!'

Trepidation twisted Tathrin's stomach. Did these renegades carouse night and day? Could they reach their goal undiscovered? How would their other men fare, sneaking through the town?

'Celebrating Solstice early?' Gren waved the man on with a cheery laugh. 'Good luck to you, friend!'

'He won't see midwinter.' Sorgrad picked up the pace as the drunk disappeared into the mêlée around the bull-baiting.

Glad to leave the brutality behind, Tathrin lengthened his stride. He could smell spilled liquor, piss and shit in every doorway. There was no savour of cooking meat or any other homely scent. These renegades had plundered the town and picked the surrounding country as bare as a crow-scavenged carcass.

His own stomach rumbled disapprovingly. For the past three days, they had marched on dry biscuit, cold bacon and cheese grudgingly doled out by the quartermasters and no one was expecting to feast in Wyril.

'Here we go!' Gren halted, looking upwards.

A fiery ball soared overhead. Tathrin followed its course down into a huddle of houses. As the first startled shouts rang out, more spheres drew blazing arcs across the moonlit sky.

'Move!' Sorgrad urged him on with a merciless thump.

Tathrin ran after Gren, trusting his knowledge of Wyril's streets. The frosted cobbles were slick beneath his feet.

He braced himself for a challenge. Surely someone would wonder why they were turning their backs on this inexplicable incident. Where were they heading, if not to help put out the fires? He could already hear cries for buckets being raised by those still sober enough to recognise the peril of fire amid these narrow streets of close-packed houses.

There it was: the Tyrle Road Gate. Tathrin drew his sword as he followed Gren.

The rising tumult in the town's centre was beginning to draw people out of nearby taverns. Tathrin picked out badges on jerkins and cloaks. The Bonebreakers' cloven skull grinned back at him. There would surely be mercenaries here who'd seen how effectively the rebels had used trebuchets at Tyrle.

'What's amiss?' a woman shouted, a billowing cloak draped over her ill-fitting gown.

Tathrin just shrugged and forced his way past two bleary-eyed drunks leaning on each other as they gawked.

What he was about to do sickened him. But they hadn't been able to come up with any other plan, not with the limited forces at their disposal. They must rid Wyril of these renegades, to be free to deal with Reniack and to scour the rest of Lescar clean. Only then would they see a lasting peace.

They had to do that fast, according to Branca. Charoleia was warning that the clamour among the Tormalin princes would soon force Emperor Tadriol to intervene.

Tathrin recalled something else his father had said. The hardest journey is only a series of steps. He set his jaw. He had come too far to give up now, whatever it might take to see this dreadful night through.

'Who goes there?' A man swaddled against the cold stepped out of the shadowed archway.

So the Bonebreakers had set a sentry. Sorgrad had said they were the best of this treacherous rabble.

Gren was already there, his blade slicing through the torchlight. The man's blanket tangled around his sword-arm and he died on a gurgle of surprise as Gren's thrust slid deep into his chest.

Tathrin spun around in case someone had noticed. He saw the open expanse inside the gate was now filling with people but they were all looking at the fires taking hold in the heart of the town or at the blazing missiles still raining down.

'Watch the battlement stair.' Sorgrad was already unbolting the little postern set into the gate.

Tathrin glanced at the doorway to the spiral steps and then back at the gathering mob. Would they be expecting an assault undermining the walls, as had happened in the first assault on Tyrle, after trebuchets had bombarded the town? There must be some renegades here who had escaped that battle. How long before some of them decided they were better off quitting the town rather than trying to fight the fires? Those who'd marched with Lord Cassat's ill-fated attempt to retake Tyrle would surely recall his appalling death, struck by just such blistering alchemy.

Was there another sentry up above? How long before he saw the militia companies now marching up the road? There was no hiding that number of men.

'Warm enough for you?' Gren asked cheerily. 'Don't fret. We'll soon get your blood flowing!'

'Hopefully not on the cobbles.' As Tathrin muttered that thought aloud a blast of cold air raised the hair on the back of his neck.

He spared a glance to see that Sorgrad had unlocked the postern. The first contingent of Lescar's new army swiftly slipped through the narrow entrance, led by the Pine Marten woman Verista.

Tathrin looked carefully at Sorgrad. There was no hint of magelight around him, not even a glint in his eyes to raise Tathrin's suspicions. The Mountain-born wizard wasn't even looking at the rising flames but at the milling crowd.

That relieved one of Tathrin's fears. If the Archmage sent his spy Jilseth to search Wyril for some stain of magecraft, they couldn't accuse Sorgrad. This conflagration really was instigated by the infamous alchemy of Aldabreshin sticky fire thanks to one of the darker-skinned Shearlings.

At least Tathrin was confident Reher wouldn't use his own half-taught wizardry. Now that the blacksmith had learned his magebirth was known to Hadrumal, he knew any further transgression would win him a summons from the Archmage that he wouldn't be permitted to ignore.

Tathrin gripped his sword more tightly. He had no more time for such distractions. Bonebreakers were seeking each other out amid all the confusion. One of them noticed what was going on in the gateway.

As the man gestured and yelled, a Pine Marten sergeant hurled a dagger with deadly intent. It fell short and anyway, the man had already got his companions' attention. The renegade gang advanced, drawing steely blades.

'Steady, lads,' warned Verista.

Tathrin and Gren quickly withdrew as the Ashgil militiamen crowded close, gripping their newly hafted halberds.

The Pine Marten sergeants flanking the men at the front locked their shields with those on either side. Resolute, the line advanced to hold the inner edge of the arch.

Chapter Seventeen

Tathrin

Wyril,

in the Dukedom of Draximal,

44th of For-Winter

The Bonebreakers' assault was fast and furious. The Lescari line held firm. Their sergeants shouted encouragement as swords jabbed over and under their adamant shields. Halberds used their longer reach to good effect and the Bonebreakers fell back, bloodied and dismayed. Some collapsed to the cobbles, gasping, forced to crawl away.

'Come on, long lad. They don't need our help.' Gren darted for the narrow stair leading up to the battlements.

Keeping his sword close, Tathrin ran after him. Thankfully they found the narrow spiral lit by candle lanterns.

Who had lit those? As Tathrin wondered, Gren threw open the door to the gate's highest turret. Tathrin ripped his sword across the startled face of the Bonebreaker who'd been dozing aloft. He died like his comrade below before he could raise a shout.

Tathrin flung the man's blood from his blade as he used his other hand to unfasten his cloak. It was hard to believe he had ever felt cold tonight. Hearing a footfall, he spun around, sword ready.

'All clear.' It was Sorgrad.

Tathrin walked out onto the open battlements on top of the gatehouse. As he looked eastwards, Gren surveyed the fortifications running west. No danger threatened. There was no one else up on these walls. Not yet, anyway.

Tathrin slipped the heavy pack off his shoulders, momentarily savouring the relief. But there was no time to waste. He quickly joined Sorgrad and Gren in securing ropes around the outward-facing mullions. They dropped the woven ladders they had carried to waiting archers below. Lightly armoured, the bowmen climbed swiftly, their weapons and quivers slung on their backs.

With that last task done, Tathrin studied the town. Fires were spreading, fast and furious. Townsfolk might have organised bucket chains or begun tearing down threatened houses to save the rest. These renegades were so drunk, so feckless, they merely fled the flames.

Such flight brought them to the gates, all now successfully captured by Tathrin's army. He could see signal torches marking out the dark circle of the walls, lurid green thanks to more Aldabreshin alchemy. The Draximal Gate, the Deflin Gate, the Triolle Gate. He heaved a sigh of relief, his breath smoky in the cold air.

Sorgrad was watching the confused mob below. The Bonebreakers were advancing again, more cautiously this time, still determined to force their way out of the town.

'They'll soon sober up,' Gren predicted, 'when they realise we're not coming in to attack, just keeping them penned them up inside.'

'Just as long as we can do that.' Tathrin looked again at the signal torches. This night had to see an end to these renegades. They couldn't let them loose to simply regroup and continue their depredations.

He was still revolted by this cruel plan, even if he had helped to devise it. As long as the runes rolled in their favour, and he had helped weight them as far as possible, this would be slaughter, pure and simple.

He reminded himself that these Bonebreakers and all the rest had murdered countless innocents. However brutal, this could be considered some kind of justice, like the sentences meted out at Losand. The Guild Councils there had decreed Duke Garnot's mercenaries should be hanged from the town's walls. With Wyril's guildsmen dead or fled, this army drawn from all Lescari would pass judgement in their name.

At his elbow, an eager crossbowman cranked his weapon. 'Give us a look.'

Tathrin stepped aside as more archers scrambled over the outer mullions.

The renegades below scattered as bolts and arrows began raining down. The Lescari contingent holding the gateway stood firm, safe from the murderous missiles.