Janis hunched his shoulders. He muttered something unintelligible and partially turned away.
“As I was saying,” Khollo continued. “We need you now. Me, Sermas, Hern, Ondus. The soldiers bound to us and the blacksmiths and cooks and stable hands and the others who serve us. The people of Ishkabur, of Ardia. Those who the war has not yet touched. They all need Janis Kurkan the hero.” Khollo paused. “You have to fight with everything we have. For them. For us. For those who went before. For my father and your brother. Fight, so that they do not die in vain.”
Janis took a great, shuddering breath. Khollo realized that he had spoken at some length, and the others were staring at him. Sermas and Hern were flabbergasted. Ondus looked less surprised. More impressed, really. Janis turned back to face the others, his eyes bright with tears.
“You’re right, of course,” he said quietly. He turned to Ondus. “Release Clemon’s men. Return their weapons and give them their orders. We’ll leave Clemon where he is until the battle. Then, he will join us above.” He returned to the table, standing behind his carved wooden chair. “Get some sleep for now, all of you,” he ordered. “It’s going to be a long night.”
Chapter 15
A three-quarters moon shone bright above. The last rays of the sun had vanished in the west, and as the sky darkened to black, stars were beginning to appear. The night was cold, but no worse than Khollo had expected.
Everyone had taken their assigned positions, soldiers to the walls, cadets to the courtyard, the fortress staff to the kitchens. They would be out of the direct path of the battle there, unless the West Bank was totally overrun.
Khollo and his three companions were making their way from the main hall to the roof of the keep, where they would observe the battle. On the third floor, they stopped at a heavy wooden door. Janis produced the key and opened the door after the briefest of hesitations.
Lord Clemon was sitting against the wall, his eyes dull, his face drawn. His fine robes were soiled, and his flesh had taken on an unhealthy pallor. So different was he from the confident, pompous noble that had arrived at the West Bank that Khollo wondered at first if they had come to the wrong room.
The king’s chatelain peered up at them. “What is it?” he whispered. “Come to torment me more?”
Janis shook his head. “No.” He crossed the room and knelt in front of the ruined man. “You see what we are up against?”
Clemon licked his lips, nodded. “Yes.”
“And you believe us now?”
“Yes,” he whispered again.
“Then you will understand that we need every sword for this fight,” Janis said. He turned to Khollo. “Give him the weapons.”
Khollo wordlessly extended a bundle of weapons from the armory, wrapped in oilskin. Clemon rose unsteadily and grasped the bundle. Unwrapping the covering, he drew forth a narrow, single-edged blade and a heavy dagger.
“You will fight with us, on the roof,” Janis explained. “The last defense of the kingdom.”
Clemon sighed. “So be it. Lead on, Lord Kurkan. My sword is yours for the time being.”
Janis watched him for a moment, then nodded, satisfied. “Right. Let’s go.”
Janis led the way up the stairs to the trapdoor, followed by Khollo, then Clemon, then Sermas and Hern. Janis fiddled with the latch for a moment, then shoved his way through to the roof, gesturing for the others to follow.
On the roof, everything was still and calm, an island of safety in the darkness. Two braziers burned in the center of the space, giving off enough light to see by, but not enough to ruin the defenders’ night vision. Sermas and Hern looked around the roof curiously, then took positions at the edge, peering into the night. Khollo quickly strung his bow and joined them, nocking an arrow to his bowstring. There were no targets yet that he could see, but that could change in a heartbeat.
“Stay alert,” Janis warned, hefting a crossbow, a bolt already clipped to the string. “The moment you see something moving beyond the walls, I want to know about it.”
Khollo nodded gravely, licking lips that were suddenly dry and cracking. He tried to speak, and found that he could not. Forcing himself to breathe, the young warrior flexed his fingers and sighed.
The soldiers below were indistinct shadows, moving back and forth between the islands of light that marked braziers. In the courtyard, four large fires burned brightly, driving back the shadows. Cadets tended the flames and added wood every few minutes.
The night wore on, the moon tracing its path overhead. An owl hooted fretfully somewhere to the east. A moment later, Khollo saw it flutter across the sky, obscuring a star here and there with its silent wings.
Khollo shivered and stamped his feet, trying to keep warm. The others mirrored his actions, shuffling and stamping. Eventually, silence stole back across the roof again.
The wind gusted especially strong. Then, over the noise of its passage, Khollo heard a low growling, snarling noise.
What is that? He wondered. It was not the sound he had expected vertaga to make.
“This isn’t right,” Janis muttered, echoing Khollo’s thoughts. He frowned into the night. “Not at all right.”
Shouts rang out from the gatehouse. Gray shapes appeared, seeming to fly onto the fortress walls. The clash of steel on steel carried clearly to the roof of the keep on the wind.
Khollo raised his bow and drew back, searching for a target. The walls below were a tumult of thrashing bodies, black-armored vertaga blending in with the night, defenders in their silver mail and plate gilded by the light of
