"Harric!" Caris called, softly. She scanned the rock pile of their around her, painfully aware of the fact that Willard would notice and become iritated. No sign of him around their vantage on the rock pile. Her gaze swept the road behind, where the horses stood hobbled. Still nothing.
"Where the Black Moon is Harric?" Willard grunted, craning his neck to check by the horses.
Brolli turned his huge eyes to the road behind, then again to where it approached the fortress. After a moment, he made a noise that might have been a rueful laugh. "There." He pointed to a distant point on the road below them.
Shielding her eyes from the light of the enemy's fires, Caris saw movement behind the fortifications. A dim figure jogged down the road toward the wall. Harric. He slowed, seemed to pause when he was almost to the fortress, then left the road, climbing up to the side and out of sight. Stairs? Yes. A dark line of stairs with a low wall as rail or cover.
"He grew tired of the old men arguing," Brolli said.
"Gods leave him," Willard muttered. "What the Black Moon does he think he's doing?"
"Making a look at that cliff ledge, I think."
Caris felt a stab of anxiety. Surely it was as clear to him as it was to Harric that running out on that ledge was suicide. He appeared again at the top of the stairs; the angle of her view had him silhouetted against the illuminated cliff rocks beyond. Surely he would turn about soon and come back to report some new reconnaissance. She'd sensed over the last few days a desire in Harric to impress Willard — to somehow appear capable of more than dressing the old knight or buffing his saddle. Did he think this sort of spying was the way to show he was useful? Gods leave him, why'd he leave without telling me?
"I see him," Willard muttered. "He'd better not get any ideas of heroics. Girl. Get him back here. Take a shield," he added. "And I don't want you taking any risks, so stay behind cover. Keep that shield between you and the tower in case you're spotted. Understand? No heroics."
Caris clambered down the rock pile. She grabbed the tall shield from Harric's horse and set off at a trot, her armor clacking with every stride. With every boot fall, her anger at Harric compounded. Why didn't he tell me? Did he think I'd stop him? Betray him to Willard? The notion galled her, but in truth she knew she might well have stopped him, and the fact he was justified in his secrecy galled her even more.
When she reached the place where Harric had turned aside, she saw the stairs, but their protective wall was much too low to allow her to climb normally; she'd have to crouch almost double. Nor could she see the top of the stairs from the bottom, as the staircase curved around an outcrop. So she climbed. She took the stairs two at a stride, bent double in her armor. When she rounded enough of the bend to see the top of the stairs, she was breathing quite hard and sweating into her quilting. Worse, Harric was not in the stairwell.
Her eyes pried through the dark of the stairs, looking for where he might have hidden, but found nothing but the uniform lines of stair after stair.
Another stab of panic. Where the Black Moon are you?
She reached the top of the stair to find no sign of him there, nor on the ledge of the path across the cliff. She was certain she had not passed him on the stair, but was so baffled that she glanced behind her just to be sure. There was nowhere above her he could have gone, unless he'd fallen off the ledge.
Her breath hitched, and she swallowed a hard knot in her throat.
She could not look over the edge without revealing herself to watching crossbowmen, but if she did it quickly she could be back again behind the wall before they could aim and shoot. She looked back up the road above the pass to the pile of boulders where Willard and Brolli still watched. She could see their shapes in the dim light of the moon. Was one of them motioning her to return?
Gods leave you, Harric. Where are you?
He had to have fallen. She put her eye to a chink in the wall and took a good look at the siege tower. Three men with crossbows watched the ledge, talking in low tones. One seemed to be looking right at her, though he gave no sign he saw her.
Gripping the shield on each side, she held it before her. Then she stood up and stepped out just as Bannus's horn sounded in the valley.
She almost jumped from her armor.
Too startled to look carefully for Harric, she nearly forgot to look at all. She caught a hasty glimpse of fire-lit stone below, then someone cried out on the tower, and she lurched back, missed a step on the stairs, and nearly tumbled, catching herself as she slammed a shoulder against the cliff wall.
The words that came out of her mouth were not ladylike.
A crossbow quarrel clattered off the cliff at the top of the stairs and into the stairwell at her feet.
* * *
Pain woke Harric. Searing pain behind his eyes. A bolt must have lodged in my brain. Voices nearby, arguing. Something tickled his cheek. A fly. There's a fly on my cheek. He opened his eyes, to find something hairy lay directly in his face. It was the back of someone's head. Maybe a hair was tickling his cheek. The person lay beside him, unmoving. Something smelled like a dead cat.
A hissing bolt struck his companion with a sharp whap! His companion jerked stiffly.
Slowly, Harric pieced it all together. He was on the ledge. He'd passed out and fallen between the first guardsman's body and the cliff; the guardsman's body screened him from the crossbows of the tower.
"Dead," a voice said. "You're imagining things."
"I tell you he stood."
"You're drunk."
"I haven't had a drop, and I know what I saw."
Another quarrel raced in and hit the corpse's head with a sickening thok, jogging it into Harric's nose.
"It won't stand anymore," said third voice. Laughter.
Harric had no idea how long he'd been out, but judging by the fact that the bowmen still shot at the corpse, it hadn't been long. Above him the high clouds turned pink with approaching sunrise. He couldn't afford to rest, or sunrise would catch him and he'd be thrust from the Unseen as he had been that morning, only this time with fatal results.
Careful not to raise his head, he craned his neck to peer up the ledge toward the fissure at the end of the ledge. He'd made it almost halfway. From here the crack looked as big as a smelter's chimney, wide enough even for Caris to enter. He could not see the resin charge, but it had to be there, he reasoned, since he'd seen no evidence of either of the slain guards bringing charges with them.
The second dead guard lay halfway between himself and the safety of the fissure. He knew he could not hold himself in the Unseen long enough to make it all the way to the fissure, but if he could get to the next corpse he could lay down and rest beside it before attempting the final leg.
He closed his eyes and peered out of his oculus into the Unseen, then opened them in panic as he realized he no longer held the witch-stone in his hand. Moons! He felt around between himself and the body, but found nothing. He searched with the other hand between himself and the cliff face, but again found nothing. Cursing, he spread his legs until they encountered the cliff on one side and the corpse on the other. No witch-stone. Then it rolled free from between his thighs, and he clapped his legs together just in time to catch it between his ankles.
Biting back on more curses, he reached one hand down as far as he could reach, then curled his legs up and bent at the waist until he felt its glossy surface in his fingers. But as he grasped the stone he budged the corpse, and another cry went up from the tower.
"There! See? His arm moved! Get that spitfire over here."
Harric closed his eyes, and rose into the oculus. It was no easier this time, and when he entered into the Unseen the headache thundered behind his eyes, doubling as he climbed to his feet and staggered up the ledge. From the corner of his eye he saw the spitfire erupt from the siege tower. In the Unseen, it appeared as a black line of darkness, and as it streaked from the weapon it painted the landscape in weird un-light shadows. He heard the resin wad splatter against the stone behind him, hissing as it burned.
Harric kept his eyes on the path and staggered forward to the second corpse, which lay even with the siege tower on his left. Gasping, he collapsed beside the body and let himself fall through the oculus into the Seen. Flat on his stomach, his head swam with roaring pain. Sweat soaked his shirt. It clung to his skin like he'd just emerged from a pool.
"Mother of moons, now that one's moving," said a voice just below him. "See his leg there? It just edged over."
A crossbow thrummed, and the corpse beside Harric jerked. "It's rats, then. He ain't breathing."
"Reload that spitfire. Time to roast another rat."
Get up! Harric cursed himself. Now! Or it will be too late!
He entered the Unseen one last time, but this time could barely get his head through the oculus before his ears roared and his vision grew dark. He choked in pain, and let it go. I can't do it! he realized. I have nothing left!
* * *
The corpse nearest Caris burned and stunk of singed hair and worse. The crossbowmen on the tower now took potshots at the second corpse. Boredom? she wondered.
Then she saw the boots. Four boot-soles faced her on the ledge. Harric! She stared in disbelief, a combination of wonder and anger rising in her throat. He lay wedged between the second corpse and the cliff face. He must have crept out when the tower men had been distracted, but what could possibly have distracted them? There had been nothing she could recall. Had he crawled there on his belly, hugging the cliff and relying on the edge of the ledge to shield him from view from below? She wouldn't have thought it possible, but there he was, clear as day! She'd been too preoccupied with the tower and everything else to notice before.
A strange mix of admiration and fury warred in her brain.
A bolt hissed in front of her face and cracked against the wall beside her, startling her from her reverie. She jerked the shield up and crouched for cover.
On the ledge, one of Harric's boots twitched. His chest rose and fell as if breathing rapidly. Was he wounded? Panicking? A breath of fear tickled her heart. He hadn't moved since she'd been there. Why? A little voice in her head whispered a chilling possibility she took as truth: because you called their attention back to the ledge.
The scenario unraveled itself in her imagination like the ending of a sad ballad: the crossbowmen, lax in their duties, had allowed him to inch out there on his belly until she spoiled it by rousing the bowmen to watch again like hawks. Now Harric dare not move. He's trapped, and I trapped him.
She ground her teeth, rejecting against the guilt that assailed her. No, this is his fault. This is what happens when he sneaks off without telling me. None of this would have happened if he'd trusted me.
She peered through a peep-hole at the tower. Four crossbowmen. Two of them watched her position, the other two continued their sport of sniping at the second corpse. Beside them, a spitfire knight reamed out his weapon.
Bannus's horn sounded again, louder. It seemed to come from just beyond the nearest bend below the pass. She shifted her gaze through the peep-hole in time to see a rider appear around the bend, followed by three others. The first was clearly Sir Bannus on his gigantic Phyros, Gygon. The next appeared to be his squire or some other knight. The last two followed on leads behind the squire, and judging by their sagging posture were captives bound in their saddles.
An answering horn rang out from the siege tower, and Bannus sounded his deep, harsh horn again. He rode past the tents and tower, into the roundabout. "My tor! My castle!" he roared. "You have done well!"
Caris felt her gut clench at the sight of him. On the gigantic, scarred Phyros he seemed truly a god among mortals. His dark violet skin was as scarred as his Phyros's hide, but to the point of mutilation — monstrous — over a frame three times the size of a knight, and muscled like ten men. In the segmented black armor he radiated divinity, invincibility. To see him even at a distance, Caris felt herself shrink to a little girl in armor.
"Wall men!" Bannus bellowed. He reined in before the gatehouse. "Your time is nigh!"
Atop the battlements, a few tiny heads appeared. He roared with laughter and turned to face his men, who had emerged from their tents, or climbed the siege tower to lean out from the timbered levels. The bowmen on the top, Caris noted, had stopped their sniping, though they still watched the ledge. She chewed her lip, hoping Harric would not choose this time to make a break for the fissure, thinking the bowmen were distracted.
"I bring you a sign!" Bannus cried. "A sign that the Old Ways have returned!" He gestured behind his saddle to a pair of baskets hung on either side. The basket nearest Caris appeared to be filled with human heads. One head wobbled on top of the basket, a young man's head, judging by the cut of the hair. Each of the baskets might have been big enough to hold a dozen such heads.
Gods leave us, has he slain all of Gallows Ferry?
Bannus reached back and grabbed the hair of the wobbling head and jerked it up.
And the face screamed.
He hauled it from the basket, and it appeared to be more than just a head, but she only glimpsed it, for Bannus simultaneously spun Gygon to better display his trophy to the wall men, blocking her view with his massive immortal body. A prickle of horror crawled up her spine. The basket had been too small to hold even half a body. She'd heard the tales of this. With Phyros blood they'd kept the boy alive. The Old One's greatest weapon was terror, and this their greatest use of it. Who would stand against them and risk capture, if this might be their fate? This is how they enslaved the land for centuries.
"Behold!" Bannus roared. "This is the fate of all who defy me! Is it not known? Have I neglected this land so long the tales have dimmed?"
Silence from the battlements.
Bannus howled with rage, and whirled Gygon to face his own men. Again Caris glimpsed his trophy—eyes rolling in fear, a simple shirt with fluttering sleeves—before Phyros's body obscured it. Is this what you wish?" Behold! I bring you an eastern bastard!" Bannus bellowed to his men. "Is this not a pretty piece of flesh?"
The men on the siege tower roared approval.
"Squires!" Bannus pointed to the ranks of men in the camp. "Come forward! He is yours!"
At first, the lines of men stood as if stunned. Then a trio of steel-clad squires strode from the ranks, pushing other squires before them. Bright yellow plumes bobbed from the helms of the trio, who must have been brothers. The trio shoved the others across the roundabout to the immortal, all grins and yellow-plumed swagger.
They converged on Bannus's trophy, and the immortal released him to their arms.
"Go!" Bannus commanded. "Let him lick clean your boots! Practice on him as you will."
Following the lead of the trio, the company of squires cheered, and crowded around their new pet. Caris glimpsed the young bastard's terror as they appeared to taunt him with pinches and jabs. When the trio took the prize for their own and bore him to the tents, the rest remained before Bannus, and cheered them on.
One of the smallest squires, however, stood apart from the rest. He didn't laugh, but stared in shock after the whooping trio.
"Boy!" Bannus' eyes fixed on the squire. "You have no taste for bastard?" He hoisted a head from the other basket, this one with long woman's hair and a fluttering shift—and slung her into the arms of the other squires. "Lay her out for him!" Bannus commanded.
The squires complied and stepped back.
"Come, boy! Take her here. We'll make you a man before these walls."
The lone squire stood petrified, abandoned by the others He couldn't have been older than twelve. His arms trembled. His head shook feebly as if to deny this was happening.
Caris clapped a hand to her mouth to suppress a sob, but unable to look away.
"Who brought this milk-rag to my battle?" Bannus roared. "He defiles this place! Take her, boy, or you shall be as she, and serve in our tents!"
A knight strode from camp, a pained grin plastered to his face. The boy's father? With a gruff hand behind the boy, he guided him to stand before Bannus. The boy clung to the knight's arm, and when he tried to bury his face in his side, the man struck him. They stood above the woman, whose face Caris could see in a gap between the watching squires. She had flopped on her back, and now panted. Hair stuck to her face, but she twitched it aside with a flick of her head and glared up at them.
She said something, and Caris realized she was laughing. Harsh, hoarse laughter.
"See what you've brought upon us!" she cried out to the watching knights. "All of you! See what he's done? And he'll do it to you! To your sons! See what your insane religion brings upon us?"
The knight kicked her, but she kept laughing, and the boy pulled away from his father, shaking his head. The father grinned for Sir Bannus and collared the boy, bending low to speak in his ear.
The boy looked up at Bannus. He swallowed. He dropped to his knees beside the woman, disappearing from Caris's view behind the wall of squires..
"Take her now," said Bannus, "or I will make you my toy."
Bannus's squire rode into the roundabout, his destrier's hooves clattering loudly in the silence. He still led the pair of horses bearing captives. Dirty, bent, strong: peasant men, Caris judged. Hands bound to the saddle.
"Sir Titus," Bannus called, his eyes never leaving the boy. "Bring my ax."
Bannus dismounted and loomed over the boy, opposite the boy's father, who stood motionless as stone. In the gap between squires, Caris saw the boy began to shake violently. The woman had stopped laughing. Her eyes grew soft, and she spoke gently to the boy.
Sir Titus drew up beside Bannus and handed him an ax. Bannus pointed to one of the peasant men on the horse behind Titus, and then to the ground beside the boy.
"I wish to show this cob warmer and his father the fate they have earned this day."
The father startled. "The father, Your Holiness? Me?" He stepped back from his son. "Surely not I. The boy, yes, but—"
"You sired this girl," Bannus rumbled. "You disgrace your steel."
Titus motioned to the camp, which had grown silent. Men watched impassively, or with fixed grins like that of the father. As Titus moved, his hood shifted and Caris saw the glint of the red mask covering his face. The Faceless One, she realized. Just as Harric said. Four knights emerged from the ranks beside the tower and hauled one of the captives from a horse. They dragged the man beside the unfortunate boy and father, and staked his limbs to the ground.
All the while, the woman spoke softly to the boy, and the boy nodded faintly in reply.
Bannus paid them no attention. He turned to his Phyros and made a quick incision in the beast's scarred neck. Dark blood gushed from the wound into a bowl he held underneath. Gygon made no movement, and the bleeding quickly stopped. Bannus handed the bowl to the Faceless One, who cradled it in both hands and took it to the side of the staked man.
"Wall men!" Bannus said, turning again to the gatehouse. "Behold, that you may know your fate of all cowards unworthy of the Old Ways." He picked up the ax, and made a show of aiming it at one of the staked man's arms. "Do not offer to surrender, wall men. Do not ask for mercy, for there will be none. When we enter your little fortress, you will beg for mercy, and receive none. Yet you will live, for we shall make shapes of you that men remember. When they see you they will say, 'There goes one who forgot how to kneel.'"
"Bannus!" Willard's voice rang out over the battlements, and the sound of it made Caris jump. "You pathetic dog raper. Do you yet live? Time I remedy that."
Caris switched peepholes and found the old knight standing on the battlement.
If possible, the silence that followed was deeper than that which Bannus had engendered with his horrors. The ax froze. Bannus's mutilated head tilted as if listening. He lowered the ax. He turned toward the gatehouse.
Willard had chosen a spot out of view of the crossbowmen, but in full sight of Bannus. To Caris he looked pathetically small and vulnerable compared to the swollen, rippling immortal.
"I would know that voice if it were removed a thousand years from my hearing," Bannus rumbled. "It is the voice of the Abominator. But I see only this pitiful old woman on the wall. Where is the Abominator? Let him show himself."
"You grow slow in your dotage," said Willard. "I am here. I do not fear your gaze."
Sir Bannus stepped toward Willard, and stepped again. It seemed to Caris, by his expression, that he was drawn to the aging knight as if to some horrible wonder. He stopped below Willard, and his laughter boomed from the walls. "Can it be true? He is aged! He has forsaken the Blood! This old woman is the great and mighty Sir Willard? No. I shall not let that stand. I shall not let you escape into death, Sir Willard, for you must pay for your crimes. When I take you I shall force the holy Blood through your lips and until you are reborn—a rebirth you never earned—then I will defeat you in equal combat and make a trophy of your trunk. You will spend eternity as an ornament in my hall, Abominator, the price of your treachery."
"The price of justice, that would be," said Willard. "But it is my choice whether I take the Blood, Sir Bannus, and I choose to die. As should you. This Blood—this borrowed divinity—mads you, though you call it holiness."
Bannus stepped closer, seething. "You never deserved your mount. I should have slain you the day you came begging to the Sacred Isle."
"Molly chose me. Do you doubt the divine judgment of the Blood?"
Bannus howled. The sound of it shocked Caris, and sent her ears ringing. "Speak not of the Blood!" he roared. With the swiftness of a striking snake, Bannus flung the ax. The weapon was nothing more than a blur and a clash of steel as Willard vanished from her view.
Roaring rose in Caris's ears as she stared at the empty battlement. Willard! Had he ducked? Had he been hit? If he'd ducked, why hadn't he reappeared? The roaring rose to a deafening volume. She put her hands to her ears to block it out, but it did no good. It never did any good. The roaring grew louder behind her hands and she felt the familiar darkness coming, terror rising and buckling her knees, driving her into a ball on the stairs.
Not now! You have to do something! Harric lives! Act! Move!
She staggered to her feet, shield in hands, and stumbled onto the ledge.
*************************************
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