The Red Wyvern: Book One of the Dragon Mage (35 page)

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When they reached the ruined dun, the silver daggers turned their horses over to servants, who would lead them back to the camp. With a lantern in one hand, Caradoc walked among his troop and made sure that each man had tied his scabbard to his leg to keep it from knocking against some wall or obstacle and sounding an alarm. Here and there he rubbed a little more dirt into someone’s clothing to hide a spot of white linen. The men gathered in a loose crowd in front of the cellar door that led to the bolthole.

“All right, lads,” Caradoc said. “Stand where you are a moment, will you?”

The troop turned his way.

“First to catch it!” Caradoc went on. “Here.”

Caradoc tossed something above the crowd. Red-haired Trevyr reached up and plucked it from the air.

“It’s a bit of cloth around a stone,” he told the others. “We’re counting out for squads.”

“Just that,” Caradoc said. “You’re number one. The man next to him, shout out two, and then the next, one again. Remember which number you draw, lads. One or two.”

Branoic ended up with number two, much to his annoyance. Whenever the troop split, Owaen always commanded the second squad, and Branoic would much rather have gone elsewhere. At the very end, Tieryn Peddyc called out “one,” but Caradoc motioned him forward.

“You go with the second squad, my lord,” he said. “The reason will come clear later.”

“It’s your command, here, not mine,” Peddyc said.

“Just that.” Caradoc smiled briefly, then turned to his men. “Now remember, lads. Noise is the enemy. Pay careful attention to where we come out of this tunnel. If you get cut off by some mishap and you can’t go forward, then retreat to the bolthole and come back here. But be blasted sure you don’t give the bolthole away. We don’t want the bloody little false king escaping.”

In ranks of four they entered the dark tunnel. At the head of the line Caradoc’s lantern bobbed and gleamed, showing the way as they tramped along, heading downhill from the dun. Branoic had never been so aware of noise: the sound of their boots slapping on the muddy ground, their breathing, the occasional cough, the rustle of cloth on the concealed mail. He reminded himself that out in the open air the same amount of noise would sound much less.

The tunnel abruptly jogged. When Branoic reached out a hand, he touched the pillar of worked stone Lilli had mentioned. They were passing under the walls of Dun Deverry. From there the tunnel sloped up a good long hike that had Branoic sweating by the time it finally levelled out. A murmur to halt passed down the line. They had reached the door.

Branoic could see some of the men milling about at the head of the line, but no one spoke. The lantern suddenly brightened, held aloft in Peddyc’s hand. It seemed that Caradoc was doing something to the door itself. The candle lantern dipped down and went out. Fresh air drifted down the passageway; the doors were opening, but in silence rather than with the shriek Lilli had mentioned. Slowly, carefully, the line began to move forward. Branoic took a deep gulp of the cleaner air and followed his troop through the cellar, then up the wet steps to the deserted ward.

Overhead the clouds were hanging thick. Branoic could only make out large shapes: the walls of the irregular ward, the broken broch behind them, a distant rise of buildings. The ground lay slick with mud and drizzle, and over everything hung the wet scent of decay. Caradoc motioned the troop back. They crowded into the cellar, then two or three at a time jogged across the ward to the wall at the far side. In the shadows they spread out and pressed back against cold stone in a ragged line one man deep. When Branoic reached the wall, he looked back across the little ward to see a distant confusion of dark towers rising against a drift of clouds. The moon broke free again and revealed the confusion as the false king’s broch complex, a good safe distance away. As the light faded he saw Caradoc, running to join them. The captain slipped into place at the head of the line next to Tieryn Peddyc.

Caradoc had of course drilled them on the plan over the past few days. They would find a way out of the little ward that enclosed the bolthole, then begin looking for a place to climb over the fifth wall. With Peddyc there to guide them, the first part of the plan proved easy. They left by the same gate as Lilli had, but where she’d gone uphill toward the broch complex, they walked down a narrow space between two walls, then turned to their right and found themselves in an alley between deserted outbuildings. The fifth wall loomed beyond empty sheds—impossible to judge the distance in the murky half-light.

Slowly, moving a few men at a time and for only a few feet at a time, they crept down the alley, which debouched into a muddy open space, too narrow to be called a ward. On the other side rose the stone curve of the fifth wall. The moon broke free of the clouds. With hand signals Caradoc moved his men back among the sheds, while he remained crouching at the alley’s mouth. When the moon’s light faded, he dashed across and gained the shadow of the wall.

In their hiding places the silver daggers waited. To Branoic it seemed a large eternity before Caradoc appeared again, motioning them over with a wave of his arm. A few at a time, gauging the moonlight, they ran across the open space and spread themselves out along the wall. While they waited, they uncoiled the ropes from their waists. When the moonlight dimmed, Caradoc worked his way down the line.

“No guards on the fifth wall,” he whispered. “Some on the fourth. We go over a few at a time.”

The first men up tied the ends of the ropes around merlons, but on the rough stones climbing would have been easy enough in daylight. The problem was doing it quietly while groping in the dark for handholds. Branoic was nearly to the top when he set his foot against what seemed to be a protrusion; it was only a shadow. His foot slid against wet stone. With a grab at the rope he saved himself and hung for a moment, spraddled like a target at an archery contest. His feet at last found rough stone, and he pulled himself up. At the top, he rolled onto the broad-topped wall and hid behind a merlon to catch his breath. All along the wall the other silver daggers were doing the same.

Below them, between them and the fourth wall, lay the deserted village—round houses, sheds, long barns, cattle pens, and here and there a beehive-shaped pigsty. The animals were a danger; pigs were smart enough to know an intruder when they saw one and raise a fuss. Fortunately, they could smell the pigsties a good long ways off and avoid them. But if the peasants had left dogs behind to guard their houses—Branoic didn’t want to think about that. In the chancy moonlight he could see Tieryn Peddyc, crouched behind a merlon, leaning a little way out to study the lie of the village while Caradoc knelt behind him.

All at once Branoic heard distant voices. Peddyc slid back behind the merlon. The voices were drifting across from the fourth wall—guards. The voices came closer, resolved at their loudest as those of two men, then faded again. So they were patrolling in pairs. For a long while the silver daggers waited, listening and judging intervals. The guards came infrequently. Nevyn’s magical storm had done its work.

One man at a time, the silver daggers climbed down the far side of the wall. Branoic was halfway down when a cloud tore and exposed the moon. He froze, heard distant voices, climbed a few yards down, froze again. The moon disappeared. He clung some ten feet up from the ground while the guards walked by, arguing about some trivial thing. Once they were past, he slithered a few more feet, then let himself drop the rest. He found himself among round thatched houses. Caradoc grabbed his arm and whispered, “You blind-lucky dog.”

Once they were all down, they walked in single file, crouching as they went, pausing often to freeze and listen. Branoic had ended up near the front, just behind Owaen and Caradoc. Peddyc was doing the leading, or so Branoic supposed. In the dark, and smeared with mud as they all were, it could have been the Lord of Hell for all he knew.

Ahead loomed a big rectanglar structure with its roof sagging against the backdrop of the clouds—an old barn, Branoic assumed, from the dry smell of ancient manure. Between it and the fifth wall behind them lay a gap long enough for all the silver daggers to assemble in relative safety. Caradoc walked down the line, counting heads.

“All here,” he murmured. “Everyone rest. The worst bit’s on its way.”

“My liege!” Nevyn said. “They’re over the fifth wall.”

“Has anyone spotted them?” Maryn said.

“Not so far.”

“Good. I’ll go out and put the men on alert.” Maryn pulled a silver horn from his belt and handed it to Nevyn. “Just in case. If they reach the gate, and we’re not in position, step outside and blow this thing as loudly as you can.”

“I’ve never used a horn before.”

“A horrible squawk will do.” Maryn grinned at him. “I don’t expect music.”

With a wave the prince ducked out of the tent. Nevyn turned back to the table and considered the bowl of water that he was using as a scrying focus. From the murky images he could tell that the silver daggers still stood between the wall and the rotting cow barn. Caradoc was making sure the prince had time to ready the men who were waiting between the second and third walls.

Since this tent as well stood near the third wall, Nevyn could hear Maryn’s voice giving final orders to the lords outside. The gate already stood open a bare couple of feet. Just outside it, crouching at the foot of the third wall on the uphill side, were the Ram’s men and a contingent of the skilled assault troop. When Caradoc’s men hit the gate, these warbands would rush uphill; the gates in the third wall would be cranked wide, and men on horseback would follow.

If everything went well. If. Nevyn’s stomach hurt like fire. He rubbed it and went back to his scrying.

Ah shit! Branoic thought. No more luck for us! Half-crouching, half-crawling, the silver daggers had reached a position not far from the gates in the fourth wall. By looking slantwise between two huts, he could see them clearly, some thirty yards away. It was not a pretty sight. Over the gates stood maybe twenty men, while the pairs on patrol came and went in a regular rhythm. Lantern light abounded. They had no more hope of reaching the gates unseen than a flower does of blooming in the hells.

Caradoc inched his way down the line, whispering. Branoic heard him murmuring, “First squad to me; second squad, follow Owaen,” and then he was past. The men who’d called “one” peeled out of line and crept after the captain, who seemed to be going back the way they’d come. The second squad waited until they were safely away, then slowly and carefully closed ranks. Owaen turned and whispered to his squad as he inched past them.

“Wait for the signal. Then charge the gates.”

More cursed waiting! And what in all the hells was Caradoc up to? All at once Branoic felt his stomach turn over in a fit of cold sickness. Whether it was his omen-voice or how well he knew the captain, he realized that Caradoc and the first squad were going to make a distraction somewhere to draw the guards off. It wasn’t cursed likely that any of them would be coming back, either. Inching back along Owaen confirmed it by whispering, “To the postern back there somewhere,” in answer to a murmured question from someone else. Half-sick with grief, Branoic’s only thought was wishing he’d paid Trevyr the five coppers he owed him—not that Trevyr would be spending them anywhere soon.

The waiting went on. The men knelt in the muddy ground and let themselves go limp and still. Up at the edge of safe shelter, Owaen knelt on one knee and every now and then risked a look around a wall at the gates. Branoic’s left leg was growing numb. He shifted his weight to the right and checked his sword hilt for the hundredth time.

All at once yells cut through the night. Screams of alarm answered back from above the gates. Owaen rose, and the rest of the squad followed suit. When Branoic looked he saw half the guards running along the top of the wall and heading back toward the postern. Owaen drew his sword with his right hand and his silver dagger with his left. With the hiss of metal sliding on leather the squad did the same. Owaen raised his sword high, waited a moment, then yelled, “Now!”

The silver daggers burst out of cover and charged for the gates. The last few regent’s men froze in surprise for a moment, then began scrambling down catwalks. Someone on the wall was blowing a silver horn. Just as Branoic gained the wall, he heard horns shrieking on the far side. The prince’s forces were moving. Four of the silver daggers rushed the winch; two of them lived to claim it. Branoic swung round and saw a Boarsman running straight toward him with a drawn sword. Branoic raised his dagger, caught the blow, and swung hard from the side. His strike caught the Boarsman low; he twisted round, and on the backhand Branoic slashed—a lucky hit. His throat half-torn away, the man fell hard, tripping the man rushing to his aid.

Owaen was screaming orders. Branoic fell back, parrying all the way, and joined the fighting around the winch. The silver daggers paired off and fought back to back, parrying more than seeking kills, desperately trying to keep the guards back while the two men at the winch swore over the handle. Over the screaming of battle, Branoic heard a sound that just might have been the gates creaking. Two Boarsmen were pressing in hard; he ducked one while he tried to see well enough in the dim light to parry the other with his blade. The silver dagger behind him grunted and went down. Branoic spun and danced just in time. A hard stab slid past him. A flat blow glanced off his left shoulder; another slit his shirt through to the hauberk underneath.

“Branno! To me!” A familiar voice, just ahead.

Branoic ducked, swung, spun again, and found himself next to Peddyc. Side by side they laid their backs against the wall and swung, parrying, ducking, dodging while they panted and cursed. Three Boarsmen plunged in. Peddyc stepped forward and took one hard blow, then stabbed the second man as he fell against the Boarsman. Branoic killed the third, but in his heart he knew he was about to die. All that mattered was holding these bastards off as long as possible. Horns were shrieking. Hooves pounded.