Soon the mobs pulled back, no doubt informed by others that Palopy had fallen. Rhillian and Kiel waited until dark, then crept down to the ground. From there it was a simple matter to surprise two guards on a side gate, slit their throats and escape onto the road beyond. Soon enough they were creeping along a familiarly dark, winding route, boots splashing in puddles.
Eventually, they emerged onto an open shoulder between leaning walls. Kiel stopped to rest his wounded leg and tighten the improvised bandage. There was a view of Dockside below. Despite the gloom of the overcast night, there was light enough on the docks. Fires burned along their length, reflecting off the water and turning even the clouds above to a dull, orange glow, like coals in a dying fire. From far below, above the gentle patter of rain, there came the raucous sounds of battle.
Sasha had not yet swung her blade in anger, and already she was exhausted. She surveyed one alley's barricade, the scene alight with burning torches and the more distant flicker of a burning building. Men rested in the respite between assaults, drinking water brought to them by women carrying buckets. Younger lads scurried forward to replace pieces of the barricade that had fallen in the fighting. Bodies of the enemy were pulled away from the barricade, so they did not make a set of steps for the next attack to climb. Several defenders were discovered to be wounded, and were eventually persuaded, with much shouting and handwaving, to fall back for treatment. Then another man would be hustled forward from the waiting cluster further down the alley, to take his place in the line.
Sasha pushed forward through the throng, yelling, “Who's in charge?” Eventually a man revealed himself-a great, pot-bellied ball of a man, wielding a big, blood-spattered axe. “Losses?” she asked him, without preamble. She was not bothering to identify herself, and most people seemed in little doubt.
“Four,” the man announced, leaning a thick arm on his axe. “That last attack, they had long weapons to the fore, they seemed more organised…here, Feri says he saw a militia man…”
“Had to be!” the man named Feri declared, a big broadsword in hand, still wide-eyed and breathless from the shock of that last engagement. “He moved so well, he flicked out his damn spear like an expert, like he was fishing or something! He got Haleni right in the throat!”
“Aye, I know,” said Sasha. “The front ranks are loaded with militia, they're not all crazed lunatics. It's the same right across the line. What about armour, are you seeing any more armour?”
There were head shakes all about. Tired men; dishevelled with rain, sweat and blood.
“Just the usual,” said the big axe man. “How does the line hold?”
“Excellently,” Sasha announced, loudly enough for them all to hear. “We've had not a single breach so far. They aren't-”
“Ware!” came a shout from above, and people ducked as an arrow clattered off a nearby wall. Some attackers had taken possession of empty houses above the foot of the slope and were firing from long range toward the torchlight. Mostly, it was a nuisance.
“They aren't able to deploy their artillery,” Sasha continued, “that which they've managed to bring down the slope. Kessligh thinks we may see a more concerted attack on one part of the line-if that happens, we may need to redeploy some men. Those of you who are good runners, get ready to move if the order comes.”
“We're winning?” another man said hopefully. It was the question of a shopkeeper who found himself in a battle for the first time in his life and wondering if he might actually survive. Winning? The night, Sasha knew, was very young yet. Yet she allowed herself a small, wry smile.
“Aye,” she told them. “We're winning.”
That got a cheer. Sasha turned and pushed away through the crowd as men returned their attention to the barricade. Once clear, Sasha rejoined Kristan and ran up the adjoining alley, headed north along the stretch of docks that Kessligh had assigned to her-from Maerler's Way all the way down to South End, she had effective command.
Kristan stuck close to her shoulder, not yet breathing as hard as she. He was a Nasi-Keth lad of nineteen, slim with a mop of curly black hair and freckles. The uma to one of Kessligh's strongest supporters, he was a good fighter and an excellent runner, and had been tasked to make certain Sasha was not ambushed by some sneak behind the lines.
The connecting alleys were barely lit, and occupied mostly by women or older children hurrying with bandages, food or water. Several alleys on, she came to Fisherman's Lane, its familiar length now a commotion of battle preparations like the others. Sasha pushed her way forward, and found the mood behind this barricade nearly raucous, men talking loudly and with great enthusiasm, some even laughing at a battle-crazed joke.
Immediately behind the barricade, she discovered why. The highlanders had taken over. Tongren stood atop a portion of the barricade, in all contempt for long-distance archers, and was yelling animatedly at the others, instructing them on formations, and what had just happened in the last attack and should not happen again. He made shapes with his hands, pointing with his sword and describing men's movements. His manner reminded Sasha of the captain of a lagand team, discussing a change in tactics during a break in play. His blade was bloody and his arms were bare, black tattoos spiralled down his biceps to trail delicate patterns about his thick forearms. Sasha had not seen those tattoos before. They were the markings of a great warrior, for certain. In Lenayin, Goeren-yai men had them added as they fought in more battles, and won more victories. Cherrovan, she knew, was not so different.
She recognised Ydryld the ironmonger, another big, wide-muscled man. Ydryld was Lenay, but Verenthane, and indistinguishable from the local Torovans…save for his size. Very few Torovan men had such size about them, particularly in the shoulders. Only now did it truly strike her. She herself was a little below average size for a Lenay woman-but in Petrodor she was above. Tongren, no doubt, was a moderately tall man in Cherrovan, but here he was huge.
“You did well,” Sasha surmised to Ydryld. Ydryld smiled a gap-toothed smile and pointed proudly to the lane before the barricade. The bodies piled there were twice the number of any other lane. Ydryld's huge sword looked familiar to Sasha's homesick eyes-it had Lenay workmanship, nothing fancy and a little battered, but big, well-balanced and deadly sharp. She could well see the horror of it, here amongst the clubs and spears and half-sized thrusting swords of Petrodor.
“Sasha! Sasha!” It was Elys, Tongren's eldest, shaking her arm. Sasha almost didn't recognise him, his long black hair tied into a warrior's braid, a highland sword in his hand. He pointed at Tongren atop the barricade. “That's my father!” he proclaimed. There were tears in his eyes, and he seemed ready to burst with pride. “My father's a warrior! I'm going to have tattoos like him too, one day. You watch.”
“Were you pressed hard?” Sasha asked Ydryld.
“That pack of chickenshit fools couldn't threaten us in their dreams,” Ydryld retorted. “Look at us! Only two men hurt, those barely scratches, and look at this pile of dead filth at our feet! We're invincible!”
The men about him gave a roar and weapons were thrust into the air.
“Hey!” yelled Tongren over the top of them. “Pay attention, damn you! They'll come harder next time, this was just a probe! Listen to me and we'll kill even more of them! Sasha!” As he spotted her amongst the taller men. “How holds the line?”