At the front of the column was the Sacred Guard. Now they had drawn closer to the lime-lanterns, they looked magnificent. Brilliant white light radiated from their armour. They were straight-backed and proud; almost angelic in their bright raiment, and far from the whipped dogs Uvoren was expecting.
Among them rode Roper. He looked quite as splendid as he had when he left, mounted on his enormous destrier, a huge presence in his cloak which resisted all attempts at illumination. He and his men marched proudly, showing no signs of trepidation, though they must surely know that Uvoren was not about to open the gates for them.
Roper and the Guard drew closer and closer and still nothing happened. Uvoren did not command the cannon to open fire and Roper did not look as if he was planning to attack. He was simply heading directly for the gate, as though it would open for him as surely as it had always done. Perhaps Roper simply had not understood the deal he had struck with Uvoren. Whatever the cause, he and the Sacred Guard were marching straight for the gate. They were within range of the fire-throwers.
“What is he thinking?” muttered Uvoren. Behind the Sacred Guard, the front of Ramnea’s Own Legion was beginning to come into view, their armour looking just as polished as the men who marched with Roper. Uvoren leaned close to Tore. “Do you think Boy-Roper stopped to polish up his soldiers?”
“That’s how it looks,” said Tore. Uvoren appeared convincingly relaxed but Tore, like the men on the wall, seemed edgy.
A trumpet wailed from the column in front of the walls and, in perfect order, the marching legionaries halted. “Steady lads,” said Uvoren lightly; several of his soldiers had flinched at the trumpet.
A voice, like Roper’s but a little deeper and a little harsher, rang out across the night. “Open the gates! The Black Legions have returned to the Hindrunn!”
Uvoren beamed to himself on the dark battlement. He could hear more soldiers marching in the streets behind him; coming to reinforce the men on the wall now that it was clear Roper’s entire column was focused on this point. “The fool wants to die. He thinks standing among the Sacred Guard is going to save him. How touching!”
“You would fire a cannon into the Sacred Guard?” murmured Tore.
“Ballistae, then,” conceded Uvoren. He nodded at the two ballistae crews that stood either side of the gatehouse and they began to prepare their weapons. They were like enormous crossbows, the crews cranking the bow back and preparing to load. The Black Lord still waited, staring up from beneath his gleaming helmet to where Uvoren stood. Men still marched behind the wall. There was a satisfying snap as the ballista crews finished drawing their weapons and allowed the strings to rest on the triggers.
“Halt!” bawled a voice from behind Uvoren. Irritated, the captain swung around, a remonstration already building in his throat. The only sound he uttered was a slight hiss as the breath escaped his lungs. His mouth fell open.
Five hundred warriors stood behind the Great Gate, swords drawn and armoured in plate and mail. They held three banners at their head, the emblems described in cream on a background of black cloth. On the left, a serpent devouring the roots of a tree. On the right, a rampant unicorn. And in the middle, a snarling wolf. House Vidarr. House Alba. And House Jormunrekur. This force was led by a single warrior, tall and broad, who stood alone at the front of the formation.
It was Gray. His feet were spread wide, his sword was in his hand and he stared up at Uvoren, jaw set.
“What in the name of god?” Every warrior on the battlement had turned to stare, dumbstruck at the sight of these warriors behind them.
“Who are these?” hissed Tore. “They’re already inside!”
Uvoren’s mind was racing. “Those bloody wounded. That sneaky, underhanded bastard.” His face resembled the wolf on the Jormunrekur banner. Wave after wave of revelations were washing over him, pummelling him and making him screw up his face against it all.
There had been no defeat. Merely a tale to get him to open his gates to a bunch of Roper’s most loyal soldiers, tricked out to look injured. Now they stood, fully armed, armoured and ready for combat. The intent of these warriors was clear: open the gates, or we will kill you and open them anyway. Uvoren’s best warriors would be stuck on the wall as the army flooded through the Great Gate. It would be a massacre; one that Uvoren, so close to these five hundred warriors of Roper’s, might not even get to witness.
Uvoren stood still for just a moment, staring down at Gray. The silence was broken only by the sound of the bolts being loaded onto the ballistae either side of him. Tore was glancing rapidly from Uvoren to Gray and back again. Gray could have been a statue. Uvoren was not even breathing.
“Open the gates!” shouted Uvoren at last. His grin returned. “Open the gates! Welcome the Black Lord home!” He turned away from Gray’s forces below him and strode to the edge of the gatehouse. He gestured calmly to the ballista crews: Unload, now! and made his way down to ground level. The portcullis groaned as it was raised and the bolts of the gate shot back, making Uvoren flinch a little at the noise.
Gray and his five hundred still stood behind the gate and Gray still stared at Uvoren as he strode forward.
“Gray Konrathson,” Uvoren said softly, coming to a halt before the guardsman just as a ticking noise behind told him the gates were opening. “It seems you serve a new master.”
“My master was always the Black Lord.”
“But
