Unless Wolves were roaming the battlements above, none remained alive outside the stone walls of the High Castle. Itharr and Belkram had led the men of the dale doggedly through a hail of death to hack down the line of Wolves defending the courtyard. None of them still stood, but the castle servants had loosed the war-horses, milk cows, and goats to mill about the courtyards, making charging or even staying together impossible.
The two Harpers and the men they led were too weary to do more than watch the roaming animals for a while. They lay, moving only their eyes, amid the bodies of those they'd slain. Their roving gazes kept watch for any emerging foes, but also searched out water, good weapons, and-
'Hey!' Belkram leaned forward. 'Over there.' He slid down the flank of the still-warm dead horse he'd been propped against, rolled onto his knees, and clambered over bodies until he reached a certain belt. He tugged, worked at leather thongs for a moment, and came back to them with a metal vial in his hand.
'Healing quaff?' Itharr asked.
Belkram nodded and held it out to Gedaern, the most badly hurt daleman. 'Just a swallow, now,' he cautioned.
The white-faced, sweating man drank carefully, holding the vial in both hands. Then he closed his eyes and let his hands fall slowly into his lap as the liquid worked its way down.
When the old shopkeeper opened his eyes a deep breath later, he looked at Belkram. 'Let's be at them again,' he said with a wolfish grin. 'I want to see all of them dead or driven out by nightfall.'
He passed the vial on as similar bloodthirsty smiles answered him.
'Well,' Itharr said, looking around, 'what's the best way to get in without getting ourselves quickly killed? They'll be waiting.'
The oldest man laughed suddenly, a short bark hoarse from long disuse. 'I know the best place! Aye-the bolt hole!'
'Bolt hole?'
'Aye,' the old man said. 'I helped old Lhassar fill it in with stones, when I was a lad. It's where the jakes all drained out before they dug the deep cesspool.'
Belkram rolled his eyes. 'I might have known we'd end up climbing through dung before this was over.' He waited until hearty, rather wild laughter had risen and died, and then asked, 'So where is this?'
The old man pointed at an inner corner of the courtyard. 'Over there.'
Itharr raised his eyebrows. 'The jakes drained into the-ne'er mind. I'm just right glad I didn't dwell here then.' He rose, amid answering laughter, and swung his arms about to loosen his stiffening shoulders. 'Let's to war again, then,' he said quietly.
Belkram got up. 'Aye. For the dale, men, and freedom!'
'For the dale, and freedom!' they roared back, and plunged grandly in amid the cows.
Itharr rolled his eyes. 'I hope Storm has no magic to be watching us now,' he murmured as he and Belkram dodged and trotted amid anxious, milling animals.
'Why not?' Belkram replied. 'This is going to look splendid, in a breath or two, when we chase all these horses out of here so the Wolves can't flee on them!'
In reply, Itharr rolled his eyes again.
Ylyndaera Mulmar turned, eyes flashing. 'Well, watch over me, then! You'll have to do it on the run, though, because I'm going after my father! He needs me. I know it. I… I can feel it.'
She looked toward the castle, unseen through a solid wall of Ulraea's shop, and spun fiercely back to face the shop mistress, eyes flaming, hair whirling about her shoulders. 'Are you with me, Ulraea?' The dagger gleamed in her hand as she mounted to the window, where the shutters still hung in ruins from Irreph's handling.
Ulraea spread her hands helplessly and sighed. She went to a nearby table, took up a new, gleaming cleaver, and tugged the price tag from it with sudden impatience. She slashed the air with it a few times, her ample bosom shaking, and sighed again.
'At least, child,' she said reprovingly, beckoning with the gleaming steel in her hand, 'if you must die a hero, let us leave by the door, hey, and not my window.'
Daera's sudden smile was dazzling.
'What? Where?' The words were out of Sharantyr's mouth before she knew she was saying them. Gentle hands were cradling her head and stroking her hair.
She lay on something hard but warmer than stone. She ached, here and there, and her shoulder throbbed, but the rending, blinding pain was gone. Wondering, she fought her eyes open and looked around.
Elminster's anxious face looked down at her. A soft breeze was blowing his beard caressingly across her forehead. 'Shar?' he asked, voice rough. 'Are ye all right?'
Sharantyr put a hand down and rolled to her side. 'I… I think so.' She looked around. She was lying on Elminster's robe, on the parapet walk. Dead Wolves littered the battlements around them. A few crows had found the bodies and were fluttering about and pecking experimentally.
The Old Mage was sitting unconcernedly in his clout and boots, the ring of regeneration gleaming on his finger. Sharantyr's gaze leapt to where the quarrel had struck him.
All she saw was a dark, angry-looking patch. Elminster smiled and held up the quarrel, dark with his own blood.
Sharantyr shuddered, and then dared a glance at her own shoulder. It had been clumsily bandaged with what looked like strips torn from Elminster's clout: cotton now stiff with dried blood. Her shoulder, unseen beneath-she wriggled it experimentally-felt whole. She raised questioning eyes to Elminster.
'The healing potions ye brought back,' Elminster said. 'Ye had all of them.' He scratched at his beard and poked at her bandaged shoulder. 'How d'ye feel?'
Sharantyr sat up, feeling light-headed. Under her torn leathers she was sticky and ached, her stiff and bruised muscles complaining, but her probing fingers encountered none of the fresh blood and deep wounds she had feared to find.
'Weak as a weaned kitten, Old Mage,' she said with a smile, 'but I'll live. Give me a few breaths more and I'll be up and swinging a sword again.'
Elminster looked at the carnage around them. 'I'll stand clear of thy way when ye do,' he told her dryly.
Sharantyr answered his smile, briefly, but her eyes grew somber when she saw the dead. 'I like this killing little,' she whispered with sudden urgency, turning to him. 'Believe me, won't you?'
Elminster put a swift, lean arm around her. 'I do, Shar. I know ye well enough, now.' He looked around them and added, 'Mind, we need ye to try thy hand at it a little time longer.' He held up the magic missile wand. 'Ye seem far more effective than this, I must say.'
Daera came out into the street like a silent shadow. There was at least one man outside, in armor. A Wolf!
The man was grinning, one armored hand clutching a twisted handful of long hair. The woman he held grimaced in pain but dared not even whimper; the long curve of his sword was hard against her throat. Another woman watched from a nearby door, mouth agape, frozen in fear.
'A good horse your man has,' the Wolf said, almost conversationally. 'I've seen it.' His hand yanked her back into the hard embrace of his armor, then came around to her breast.
Deliberately, he tore the worn cloth of her bodice away. 'Almost as good as his taste in women,' the Wolf said, caressing her with cruel, bruising fingers. The sword brushed up and down her throat, reminding her not to scream.
'You're going to take me to that good horse,' the Wolf said grimly as he forced her steadily along the street. 'Silence! You, too,' he added to the watching woman in the doorway, 'or I'll slit both your throats and forego the pleasure of your company.'
The awkward procession continued down the street, the captive woman feebly pointing at an alleyway. With a face dark as a hailstorm, Daera waved Ulraea to silence and went after them on silent feet, dagger ready.
She knew he'd look around before entering the alley, and hurried. She had to get his sword away, but how?
The armored back was very close in front of her, the smell of sweat and oiled metal strong. Ylyndaera
