Before the Sky Fell

[ 29 ] A Dozen Boys Named Whik

-29-

A Dozen Boys Named Whik

Marg pace the corridor inside the main gate, his bare feet slapping against the cobblestone. Frenzied soldiers ran past him in waves of clanking plate mail.

Marg turned to Cathrow Mae. "How many do we have?"

Cathrow wiped his brow, sweat dripping down his forehead. "Three hundred footmen from the city. Trained the lot myself. Eighty or so made it out of Dirandale, though they're weary and broken from battle. Constable Madison said he raised around sixty archers from Ridgewood, though their skills vary. And seven knights, Sir Cartright included. Commander Redwater is placing the troops as we speak."

"Seven?"

"And the farmers," Cathrow added. "I know they're not skilled with weapons, but I've trained them on using the vats of tar. I've shown them how to shoot a fire arrow. Every bit matters."

"That's all we'll be after this," Marg said, watching an archer pull back his string and snap the bow. "Bits and pieces."

Henderson approached on horseback. His steed parted the crowd by the armory. When he dismounted, a stable boy ran up for his horse's lead. "The gate has been sealed. Support beams were placed over that. It's all we can do to block their entry."

"It's not enough," Marg told them. "How many ships along the coast?"

Henderson stepped in front of Cathrow Mae, who scurried backwards. "How many ships? You are thinking of running? Too late, the Larks got to the galleys already."

"And the underground passages have caved in?"

"For years," Henderson said. "It's too hot that far beneath the ground. The tunnels couldn't hold. We're trapped inside the city."

Geoffrey Marg couldn't believe that it had all come to this. His entire life he was on the offensive, seeking out battles and testing his limits. Now, in the end of his days, he had locked himself inside a city only to be chewed away by rabid dogs.

Marg nodded and looked past Henderson. He watched the spearmen by the stable. An old one adjusted the armor of a younger one, and then older one cried. The younger one patted him on the arm. His fingers wrapped around the older one's shirt. By the bakery, Lady Layren of the keep ran past the tanner's shop. Her infant wailed hysterically in her arms. Behind some haystacks, an archer hugged a little boy while a woman watched. The archer wrapped his giant fingers onto little ones and kept saying, "Now, now."

Geoffrey Marg remembered the way his father had done that to him, when he was no more than ten years old. He had been standing on the dock while he watched the hardened faces of his father's crewmen. Young Marg had shuddered and told his father they would make fun of him, that a ship is no place for a small boy.

You are not a small boy, his father had told him. You are my boy. You are Geoffrey Marg of the ship sailors and the salt of the ocean runs in your blood. His father had knelt beside him, grabbing Geoffrey's fingers and spreading them, placing the mast of a ship in between his thumb and pointer finger. Everything looks small from far away. So you'll walk down this dock and grow bigger with each step. And you'll look John Mol and Stevie Pegleg in the face and tell them you're a member of their crew now and you'll lay down your life for them if it comes to it. And they must down their life for you in return.

Marg turned away from the archer. Is that what these men are doing? Laying down their lives for a ship sailor? Or am I just a terrified boy standing close enough to appear big.

Henderson must have walked off, or joined the enemy, Marg couldn't be sure. He was a loyal man, but a loyal man who is easily enraged may not choose loyalty when it counts.