Then it was Hobard defending her as the surviving Were renewed their attack with doubled stealth and speed, scattering the fire and spoiling the Archer’s aim. The young Vedasian fought with all the pride and skill of his knight’s upbringing. He swung his sword with a valiant effort, grimacing as one of the Were passed close, fierce teeth scoring his side.
“Blaise!” A silver shout in the smoke-streaked darkness; Peldras had reached the horses. With an Ellyl charm he bound them, horseflesh shivering in fearful obedience, four sets of equine eyes rolling in terror, four sets of reins tangled in his hands. “’Tis our only chance!”
Blaise of the Borderguard swore, forging a path toward the Ellyl.
Why is it, Carfax wondered, that I am so alone here? What am I doing here? He took a step forward, interposing himself between Fianna and one of the Were, raising his smoldering branch in foolish opposition. A stick, a silly weapon; a few embers and a length of wood. Still, he had done damage with it. The Were halted, dropping to all fours and showing its teeth in uncertainty.
“You were not shown us,” it said in guttural common. “You are not prey.”
“Yes.” Gritting his teeth, Carfax swung the branch at the Were’s head. “I am.”
The branch connected with a horrible crunch.
There was confusion, then, in the milling darkness; shouts and curses, the high-pitched keen of injured Were. Sparks emblazoned the night and steel flashed, four-legged death dodged and darted with impossible speed, while sharp teeth tore and muzzles were stained with blood. This was battle, and did not need to be understood. Somewhere, Blaise was shouting commands, and Fianna was no longer there. Instead, there were the Were, howling with the fury of betrayal and lunging for his blood, maddened and forgetful of their greater quest. Without thinking, Carfax set his back to Hobard’s as to a battle-comrade’s and fought, heedless of aught else, until the branch he wielded snapped in two, and he knew his death was upon him.
“Staccian!” The Vedasian gripped his arm. “Go.”
Carfax gaped at him.
“Go!” With a curse, Hobard pointed across the glade at the dim figures of mounted riders, horses pitching in barely contained terror. “Go now, and you have a chance! The horses are fresh and the Ellyl can see in the dark.”
“Give me your sword!” Carfax thrust out his hand. “Don’t be a fool, Vedasian. I’ve betrayed my loyalties. Either way, I’m a dead man. Let me buy you time. Give me your sword.”
“Staccian, if I hadn’t argued for killing you, we would not have wasted a day in this place.” Hobard jabbed at one of the circling Were. “This is my sword, and my father’s before me. I’ll not surrender it to the likes of you.” In the faint ember-light he gave a grim smile. One cheek was streaming with blood and he no longer looked young. “This is my death. Go.”
Carfax hesitated.
“Go!”
He went, racing at full pelt across the darkened glade. Behind him, the three surviving members of Oronin’s Hunters gathered, flinging themselves after him like a cast spear. They were swift and deadly, armed with fang and claw, and they could have dropped him like a yearling deer.
But Hobard the Vedasian stood between them.
Once, only once, Carfax glanced behind him, as a terrified Fianna helped him scramble onto horseback. He could scarce make out the figure of Hobard, still on his feet, staggering under the onslaught. Even as Carfax watched, the Vedasian dropped to one knee and the Were closed upon him, a roiling wave of coarse pelts.
It was the last thing he saw as they fled.
He did not know for whom to weep.
Sarika was careless braiding her hair.
“Let it be!” Lilias slapped the girl’s hand in irritation, then sighed as the grey-blue eyes welled with tears, relenting. “Never mind, sweetling. Just don’t pull so.”
“My lady!” she breathed in gratitude. “I will be careful.”
After that the girl was careful, her fingers deft and skilled. Lilias watched her in the mirror, winding her braids into an elegant coronet. Her pretty face was a study in concentration. What must it be like to have no greater concern? Even here, in the privacy of her dressing-chamber, the sounds of the siege penetrated, a distant clamor of men and arms, challenges uttered, refuted in jeers. Lilias held the fillet in which the Soumanië was set in both hands. “Sarika?”
“My lady?” The girl met her gaze in the mirror.
“Are you not frightened?”
“No, my lady.” Sarika gave her a small, private smile. Around her neck, the silver links of her collar of servitude shone. “You will protect Beshtanag.”
Who of us is bound here, Lilias wondered? I thought my pretty ones were bound to my service; now, it seems, I am bound to their protection. She regarded the Soumanië held in her lap. For a thousand years, waking or sleeping, it had never left her touch. Light flickered in its ruby depths, seemingly inexhaustible and endless. Her own energies, like Beshtanag’s stores, were nearing their limits. It would be so simple, she thought, to put it down and walk away.
“There!” Sarika tucked a final braid into its coil and beamed.
So simple, so easy.
Instead, Lilias raised the fillet, settling it on her brow. The gold circle gleamed against her dark hair and the Soumanië was crimson against her pale skin. She looked majestic and beautiful. That had seemed important, once.
“My lady.” Pietre paused in the doorway, his face frank with adoration above his collar of servitude. “My lady, the Ward Commander is asking for your aid.”
A pang of alarm shot through her. “What is it, Pietre?”
He shook his head. “I do not know, my lady.”
With their assistance, Lilias robed herself and hurried through the halls, passing servants and wardsmen half-awake in the grey hour that preceded dawn. Everywhere, Beshtanag was feeling the pinch of the siege. Rations had been halved and working shifts had been doubled. An unseasonal chill had caught them unprepared, with a shortage of firewood laid in against the siege and a hard rainfall rendering the fortress dank and cold. The folk of Beshtanag gazed at her with banked resentment as she made her way to her reception hall.
“My lady.” Gergon bowed at her arrival.
“Is there a problem, Gergon?” Lilias asked him.
“It’s the rain.” He looked bleary-eyed and tired, and there were droplets of rain dampening the grey hairs of his brows and beard. “Haomane’s Allies have built siege-towers to assail the wall, and moved them into position overnight. We’ve been firing pots of pitch to keep them at bay, but now the rain aids their cause and the wood will not ignite. They’re clearing the wall by the score, and I’m losing men. If it keeps up, they’ll wear us down in a day. Can you help?”
“Show me,” she said.
Outside, it was hard to see in the dim light, and rain fell in cold, miserable sheets, soaking her hooded woolen cloak in a matter of minutes. Clinging to Gergon’s arm, Lilias picked her way down the cobbled mountainside road. Her wall stood, a smooth, rain-darkened expanse of granite, but here and there the framework of siege-towers scaled it. There were four all told, and Men and Ellylon stood atop the rain-slick platforms, archers armed with shortbows defending ladders thrust downward into Beshtanag’s fasthold. On the ground, Gergon’s archers shot at them, making a poor job of it firing upward in the pouring rain.
One by one, the ladders descended, and Haomane’s Allies trickled into Beshtanag. All along the wall there were skirmishes fought in the gloaming.