“It worked.”
The crowd never faltered, even as the watchmen dropped stones over the wall to crush the attackers, as they called for more arrows, even as they tried to reason with the people. No matter what they tried, the defenders failed to keep the mob from lighting their bonfire. The flames licked high at the wall, scorching the stones. The wooden gate held against the conflagration, but it couldn’t stand up to that heat forever.
The archers stopped firing. The watchmen started hauling buckets of water up the wall to douse the flames, though this seemed to achieve nothing but to create great clouds of silvery steam. The watchmen were joined by palace servants and a few guards in green cloaks. The Burgrave had left precious few men behind when he rode out of the city, and now there were not enough for the task at hand.
“You need,” Coruth said, “to start thinking what you’ll do with this new power you possess.”
“Power? Me? I have never felt more helpless in my life,” Malden insisted.
Coruth laughed. “That’s one of the first lessons I had to learn as a witch. The world is large, and the forces arrayed against us are numerous and vast. You do not gain power by opposing them. You gain it by becoming one with them. Every victory is a surrender to inevitability.”
“Please, Coruth-no riddles, not now. I am sickened by this. I want no part in it. You speak of power! If I had any, I’d use it to stop this!”
The witch shrugged.
In the square, the gate began to shift on its hinges. Perhaps they were melting-or perhaps the wood of the gate was warping in the heat. Soon it would fall, and nothing would stand in the way of the mob.
Coruth turned to face him. “Tomorrow the people will own this city. There will be no civil authority left. I do not know if they will slaughter the Lady’s priests. Their anger seems directed more toward the Burgrave who abandoned them. It matters little. Tomorrow they will look for someone else to lead them. To tell them what to do. Someone who has already demonstrated that their cause is his own. Someone who can take action, and speak pretty words, and convince them they were blameless for what happened tonight.”
“Blameless! What they’ve done already sickens me.”
“Best you don’t tell them as much. They need someone to forgive them. They need someone to tell them what to do next.”
“But that can’t be me,” Malden said. “I’m just a thief! No,” he said, looking inward. “No, I won’t do it. I can’t.”
“Be careful, Malden. If you will not take on that role, someone else surely will. Someone not of your choosing. You will do what you must do, Malden. No point in fighting it, not any more. When you need my help, come to me, and I will give it freely.” She rose grumbling to her feet. He knew she was about to turn back into a bird and fly away, fly somewhere he couldn’t follow.
Now there was power worth having.
“Wait,” he called. He had to know something. “At least tell me how I should-” he began, but Coruth was already gone.
He stayed atop the counting house all night, until the scene below him played itself out. The gate fell. The defenders made a valiant stand. They were well-trained and well-armed. For every one of them, the mob could send fifty men and women against them. And the mob didn’t care how many of its individual members died.
By dawn fire licked from the stone windows of the palace, and the roof of the barracks had been pulled down, and its stones broken.
Castle Hill was a ruin. Everything it stood for was gone.
Chapter Sixty-One
In a muddy field just off the Helstrow road, Baron Easthull’s plan was to be tested. In a few short hours it would be seen whether the rabble of deserters and bandits could destroy a small force of barbarians.
Croy was not particularly hopeful for success.
Vapor twisted along the old furrows of the field, coiled around the stubble that was all that remained of the wheat stalks that had grown there all summer. Birds wheeled over the mud, looking for any bit of grain dropped by the gleaners. At the edge of the field, where trees shadowed the soil, early frost made a crust on the water of an irrigation ditch.
The wound on Croy’s arm was bandaged tight, and hidden by a broad shield he could just lift. The wound ached, but not as much as it would after a long day of fighting.
Perhaps he wouldn’t live long enough for that to become a problem.
He looked out over a sea of expectant faces and wondered what he should say to them. He did not believe many of them would survive the first wave of the attack. Scouts reported that a force of barbarians on foot had left Helstrow before dawn. The scouts said they numbered more than one hundred, and were led by Morgain herself.
Arrayed against her, he had three hundred and sixty men. Every warm body he could find. They’d had minimal training, their weapons were of the poorer sort of steel, and they had never fought for their lives before. He’d seen them fight against a handful of scouts when they completely outnumbered their foes and still made no headway. This time he expected most of them to turn and run when battle was truly joined. Which, ordinarily, might not have been so bad. Retreat was a valid stratagem on the battlefield-if you were outmatched, or unable to press a fight, it was always better to turn and run than to stand and be cut down. Against barbarians, though, retreat was suicide. The barbarians could run faster than the men of Skrae, and they didn’t understand the concept of quarter.
Croy walked his horse back and forth across the line. Serjeants with green and yellow ribbons on their helmets struck at their men and bellowed curses at them to make them form up properly. He pretended not to hear the complaints and protests. He nodded at each man who met his eye. Then he rode back to the head of the column and stood up in his stirrups. The serjeants bellowed for silence.
Time to say something. Anything to give these men courage.
“You are men of Skrae,” Croy told them, standing upright in his stirrups. “You fight under the Lady’s watchful gaze. She will not desert you now, when you need Her the most.”
He expected a cheer, but received none. Frowning, he watched their faces, looking for any sign of enthusiasm. If only Malden were here, he thought. Malden had always been good with words. He’d probably know a few sneaky tricks to even the odds. And having a second Ancient Blade would make a big difference.
Croy shook his head. “All right. You know what to do. Hold your lines. Stand your ground. If you get any chance to hurt a barbarian-any chance-hurt him grievously.”
That actually got a faint chuckle out of the men. Croy wasn’t sure why-he hadn’t been trying to be funny.
“Keep yourselves alive. Do not forget to parry and block their blows. I’m sure you’ll all do fine.”
He sat back down in his saddle. Some of the serjeants turned to stare at him, as if to ask if he was really finished. If that was it.
Croy raised a hand and dropped it. His one trumpeter blew an off-key fanfare, and then his handful of drummers started the march.
Once on the road they made good time, though Croy did not push the pace. No need to tire his men when the enemy was coming straight at them. He led them north, following the dusty ribbon of the road as it wound through a series of small bogs. Trees lined the road on either side, their dead leaves fluttering down in front of Croy like a grim echo of rose petals strewn before a conquering hero. He brushed them away from his eye slits as they flapped against his helmet.
The marching army made enough noise that he did not hear Morgain and her company until they were nearly face-to-face. He lifted his sword hand, fingers spread, and the drummers ceased their beating. His little army took their time stopping behind him, men colliding with each other and grumbling about it. In time they formed up and brought their weapons around.
Morgain sat her horse wearing no armor, but a fur cloak. The paint on her face was freshly done and shockingly white. Behind her, scores of barbarians jogged on foot. According to the scouts, they had been running all morning, and would already be tired, ready to take a rest. That was something, at least.
