lowering their bows. They flickered out of existence one by one as they were no longer needed. Only the original men and women from whom they’d been copied remained.
Over Castle Hill, only a few birds still flew, circling madly. Eventually even they slowed and flapped wearily toward the nearest roost, utterly drained.
Malden waited another hour, to make sure the barbarian retreat was not just a ruse. Eventually he sat down on the battlements and rested his face against the cold stones of a merlon.
It was there that Slag found him.
“Lad,” the dwarf said, “there’s something you need to see.”
Chapter Ninety-Six
Malden followed the dwarf down a flight of stairs to the level of the streets. The bodies of dead barbarians lay here and there on the cobbles, having achieved a glory few of their fellows could boast-they had actually made it over the wall.
“I’m feeling rather pleased at the moment,” Malden said. He felt giddy, actually. Like he’d drunk too much wine and was about to pass out. “We’ve accomplished something here. Bloodied their noses, at least. Why do I have the feeling you’re going to ruin this all-too-rare mood?”
Slag frowned and shook his head. “I don’t want to piss in your puncheon, lad, but-”
Malden closed his eyes and sighed. “All right. Just tell me what is wrong now.”
The dwarf led him down a street that ran alongside the Ryewall. The street was only six feet wide in places, flanked on one side by the wall itself, on the other by a row of tall houses that formed a close. It was here that Slag had set up a strange tableau. Only a little snow had fallen into that artificial canyon, but even so Slag had swept patches of the cobbles perfectly clean. Then he had laid out a series of shallow bowls, each ten feet from its neighbor.
He had a cask of wine under his arm and he proceeded to extract its bung. Malden grabbed the cask from him and held it over his head so the wine fell into his mouth. “My thanks. I needed a drink.”
The dwarf grabbed the cask back with a growl. “That’s not for you, lad. Normally I’d use water for this purpose, but it’s so arsing cold out here the water would freeze. Wine will serve just as well.” Moving from bowl to bowl, he filled each with an inch of wine. Then he knelt next to one of them and stared into its surface.
“Scrying?” Malden asked. “I thought dwarves never used magic. Although these are desperate times.”
Slag stood up and glared at him. “Take me for serious, lad, for what I’m about to tell you is no joke. I believe the attack on the wall was just a feint.”
Malden had been worried that was the point of all this. All the jests he could think of wouldn’t put off the truth. “What makes you think that?” he asked.
“If I’m right, all that noise and blunder was just to distract our watchers while they started coming at us from a different direction. Look, and be still now. Watch the surface of the wine.”
Malden knelt down next to Slag and tried not to so much as breathe on the bowl. At first he saw nothing-but then the barest shimmer passed across the surface of the wine. A moment later it came again. It could have been the breeze, but-no. There was a rhythm to the movement of the wine. Again. Again.
“This is an old trick we use in our mines, up north,” Slag whispered. “If you think somebody else is digging too close to your claim, you set out bowls of water to track ’em. The vibrations from their tools run through the earth and make the water dance. If you set out enough bowls, you can triangulate and work out how far away they are and what direction they’re coming from.”
The wine shook again. Again. Again.
Slag jumped up and moved to the next bowl. He waited a moment over it, then ran to a third. “Here. It’s strongest here,” he said. Malden came and stood beside him. The wine there shook more visibly, distinct ripples forming in the surface.
“What does it mean?” he asked softly.
Slag’s shoulders tensed. “Sappers. Fucking sappers. They’re digging a tunnel under the wall. Propping up its roof with loose timbers. When the tunnel’s gone far enough, they pull out the timbers, and-crash! — the wall won’t be able to support its own weight. It’ll collapse into the empty space.”
Malden thought of something. “We heard a rumor that Morget managed to bring down the wall of Redweir in just three days. I assumed that meant he used picks and drills, but-”
“Aye, lad,” Slag said. “He must have had sappers there, too.” The dwarf shook his head. “Between this and those trebuchets he built, when nobody ever heard tell of a barbarian with a siege engine before, well, I think we ought assume Morg has a fucking dwarf on his side. Somebody who knows about this manner of skulduggery.”
A dwarf, working for the barbarians. It was hard to imagine-and it did Malden’s composure no good at all. Combine the technical skill of a dwarf with the remorseless bloodthirst of a barbarian and you were up against an unstoppable enemy.
“How long, do you think, before this tunnel is complete?”
Slag shrugged. “These walls are sound, and sunk deep. It’ll take time. Maybe a week. Assuming we don’t stop them first.”
“We can stop them?” Malden asked, hope springing anew in his bosom.
“Perhaps, lad. In theory it’s simple enough. We just have to dig our own tunnel that intersects theirs. Then we kill every fucking one of them.”
“But then there will be a direct tunnel from their camp to the inside of the city. What’s to stop the barbarians from sending through a whole army?”
“They can try,” Slag said with a half grin, “if they don’t mind us collapsing our tunnel on top of ’em once they’re in so deep they can’t turn back.”
“Remind me never to cross you,” Malden said. “I don’t think I’d enjoy your revenge overmuch. This is excellent work, Slag. The city will thank you, somehow. Is there some reward I can offer you?”
“Put about ten more hours in each fucking day,” Slag said. “Between digging a countertunnel and working on my secret project, I’m going to need ’em.” He shrugged. “I’m in this with you, lad. It’s my head, too, if we lose now.”
Malden grabbed the dwarf’s shoulder. This time Slag didn’t flinch.
Chapter Ninety-Seven
Croy could stand, and if he used Ghostcutter as a cane, he could even walk. He pushed aside the hands of the Skilfinger nurse who had tended to him and stepped out of his tent. His head swam and black spots appeared in his peripheral vision, but he was determined not to stop now.
The Skilfinger camp was busy, always, with soldiers running here and there on errands, working on digging ditches and building palisades or simply practicing their drills. They were incredibly well disciplined and organized. Had Croy possessed a company of them when he met Morgain in Greenmarsh he would have carried the day.
Unfortunately they were some two hundred miles from where they needed to be. Croy hobbled across a parade ground and up to the tent where Sir Hew and Bethane were in constant council. When he lifted the tent flap, eighteen inches of steel blade leapt out at his throat. He was just able to wobble backward and avoid being beheaded.
Hew said something in the tongue of Skilfing, and the guard withdrew his weapon without apology. Croy demanded none-the guard was only obeying his duty.
“You’re up and about,” Hew said, nodding in Croy’s direction. “Good. You can tell us the situation at Helstrow. Her Highness has been kind enough to tell us what she could, but of course she is untutored in military strategy. I mean no offense, my queen.”
Bethane was seated in a carved wooden chair at the back of the tent, wrapped in heavy quilts. “None taken,” she said. Then she jumped up and ran to throw her arms around Croy. “I thought you would perish, my
